possibly pointless blabbering

Treasure Box

annabowling Leave a comment

We’re a few days into what’s usually my favorite week of the year, that tucked-away week between Christmas and New Year’s. Jury is still out on this year’s version. Normally, going to the Laundromat is a lovely pocket of time, and doing so during my tucked-away week would make it doubly so. This time? Not so much.

We’ll start with the fact that I had to put laundry in and take it out of four machines before hitting one that would actually h0ld everything and did not have any mystery detergent residue that would play havoc with sensitive skin. Add in a quick dash back home to collect more quarters, because I ended up using the industrial sized washer. On the plus side, clean bedding.  On the minus side, there was the person who asked me if I was taking the week off, and, when I said that was my plan, answered that they didn’t think that was possible. Since I work for myself, my whole life is apparently “relaxing” and I do whatever I want, whenever I want. Yeah, not the way it works, person. Seriously not. Add in another unwanted interaction,  and I was in a foul mood by the time I got home.

I’m not sure what drew me to the small cardboard box in the hallway closet, but I figured I could use some diversion. I knew it had some of my dad’s art supplies -now my art supplies- in it, and art time is usually a good de-grumper. I noticed the paint first, four small tubes of watercolors. Some pencils, of varying vintage and purpose, some tools that look like they’re for carving clay (can check with a friend whose husband is a sculptor) and then there was the pen. Which I may want to call The Pen.

 

1933832_1097379250302105_3317754414700714080_n (2)

Rather plain at first sight, black cap and silvery barrel, but still a pen. I took the cap off.  Either a fountain pen or dip pen, though I can’t see where I could get the pen apart to check for where I’d refill if it’s a fountain pen. That’s when I examined the nib and found the words that caught my attention. Mont Blanc. Huh wuh? That’s a good pen, isn’t it? Quick check online and my suspicions were confirmed.

White snowflakey/star thing is present on top of cap and bottom of barrel, as well as the clip. “Mont Blanc” is on the otherwise plain nib, and “Mont Blanc Germany” is on the cap, below the clip. I’m not finding what model this is, and not sure where/how to continue the search, but when a fabulous pen falls into my lap, I’m going to take it. Whatever ink may have been in there at one time is completely gone now, and if it’s a dip pen (though I don’t see any evidence of Mont Blanc making any dip pens) then that would explain the lack of ink. This is going to require more investigation. The closest Mont Blanc store I can locate is in White Plains, which is a road trip in itself, but Westchester and tracking down the identity of a super cool pen? This may need to happen.

 

The paints, I think I like on their own rather than together, but this is only my smush them on the page and see what they do stage, so it doesn’t count. That’s still something hard to accept, that I can put something on a page, whether words or colors or shapes, and it doesn’t have to, and as a matter of fact, probably won’t be perfect the first time around, but treasure boxes like these are helping me deal with that.

It’s highly unlikely that I’m going to haul a box out of the storage unit and find it’s full of words, characters, plots, etc (apart from old manuscripts or boxes of books) but that same spirit of playing around, tossing something on the page and seeing what it does -What  color is this, really? What mark does this make? What happens if I get this wet? Can I scratch into it for some texture?- that can only infuse new life. Time to take a few risks again and see what comes out. There may not be gesso for the written page, but there is a delete key. First drafts are meant to be messy, same as laying down a background color; that’s only the base. Many more layers are yet to come before the finished product is ready to be seen.

 

Christmas Eve Rambles

annabowling Leave a comment

Well, we made it. Christmas Eve. Early afternoon, though, so maybe too soon to call it, but things are coming together. Considering that I forgot I had a cup of tea right next to me (and I am not one to forget smoky chai) this is a pretty good indicator of where my head is at present. I noticed the tea after completing my daily pages that I credit to yesterday (as I didn’t get to them until now; yesterday was not my favorite) and it was still acceptably warm, not to mention delightfully strong (I have not yet encountered this thing people call tea that is too strong.) Today’s morning pages will happen later this afternoon. For right now, I’m concentrating on this blog entry and then get to dive into some story stuff.

This is the time of year when I shift into Aunt S mode, because Christmas was Her Thing, and that imprinted on me at an early age. Gifts, both wrapped and to-be-wrapped are in my office, which is Christmas Present Central, and more off limits than usual. The fact that the ceiling fixture is out of order may have had a hand in enforcing this rule. Wrapping will happen later this afternoon. If I can’t make it to the Christmas Eve celebration at our church, there is a shot at Mass at Real Life Romance Hero’s tomorrow.  (One of the perks of an interdenominational family, right there.)  Even pet-to-pet present has been purchased, fits within the color scheme, and Housemate gets extra points for picking out Christmas cookies from the supermarket bakery that look very close to the cookies my Italian aunts (mom’s side of the family; these gals could BAKE.) used to make every year.

It’s an odd mix of rushing to get holiday preparations in place -we’re having company this year- and the peace of knowing the real reason for this holiday, for our family, is going to be observed no matter what else happens, so, really, what could go wrong? I consider that some decent perspective. Today, I brought three different notebooks to the coffee house with me, three different projects that need my attention today, because tomorrow is not going to be a work day at all. (Okay, I will probably write something. I know myself well enough, but it’s not a work-work day. Theoretically. Plus we have company, so they will keep me honest. Ish.)

In case you missed it, the third part of Heroes and Heartbreakers’ best reads of the year post is up, recommendations from yours truly included. To borrow Skye’s method, it is here and it looks like this:

BESTREADS

While The Highwayman is on my TBR list, my own recommendations for the year’s best reads include two old school historicals and one contemporary YA that relies on the romance of the written word. My part looks like this:

DASHANDLILY

Dash and Lily’s Book of Dares gets extra points for being a Christmas story…after a fashion. Extra-extra points for featuring a notebook prominently. Red hardcover Moleskine, to be exact, which this book made me want. I do not actually own a red hardcover Moleskine, but I do own a red hardcover Picadilly, which my brain figures is close enough. Not putting it on a shelf for random strangers to find, but it is an intriguing idea. Wonder how that would work in a historical context. Maybe I’ll have to find out. Need to water that seed and let it germinate for a while.

For now, there’s this blog entry to wrap, pun intended, and then the challenge of wrapping family members’ presents while those particular family members are not present. For me, that’s part of the fun, especially if I can harness the power of DVDs to manipulate things in my favor. Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol seems to work well as Housemate repellent, and anything featuring Hugh Grant has the same effect for Real Life Romance Hero. Skye, so far, doesn’t have any movie preferences, and finds the entire process of wrapping fascinating.

Skye, by the way, will be posting tomorrow, with her own perspective on holiday preparations. This will hopefully not entirely come from under the bed, but one can never be too sure when it comes to cats and changes in daily routine.  Speaking of routine, time for me to move on and play with my imaginary friends for a while, so I will wrap this for now and wish you all a wondrous Christmas Eve, or a happy Thursday, whichever applies.

 

 

 

 

Heroines (real life edition)

annabowling 2 Comments

The more you do, the more you’ll want to do.
-Erma Pesci Carrasco (aka Mom)

December ninth can be a hard day for me. I remember being fourteen years old, my dad waking me, and not understanding why he wouldn’t let me get out of bed. Then it sunk in. Mom was gone. The cancer won. Dad wouldn’t let me go to school, though I wanted to. He went to work, and , as I found out later, did not inform coworkers why that day was different at the time.  I spent part of the day at home with a family friend, then the rest with a neighbor.

December ninth is also the birthday of a favorite aunt (family friend sort, not parent’s blood sibling sort,) who served as second mom at key points in my teenage years, and who greatly influenced my choice of career and genre. I always wondered if it dampened her birthday celebrations in later years, that her special day was also the day she lost one of her dearest friends, but could never bring myself to ask. This year is the first Aunt’s Birthday after Aunt’s own passing, and anniversaries like this are…interesting.

My mother never got to read any of my books, though I like to think she would have. She never got to know I would write articles and blog posts (or know what a  blog was) or teach workshops.  Since my first exposure to the historical romance genre came from stealing the books from her nightstand and sorting through the books her sister, my Aunt Lucy, brought her, I suspect she would not have any issues with my choice of genre. I never got the chance to find out what Mom’s favorite settings, tropes, plots or authors were, but I do remember that, every time Aunt Lucy visited, there was a grocery bag full of big, thick historical paperbacks with art that captivated me, and back cover blurbs that fired my imagination. All that adventure, all that history, and all those happily ever afters…pure bliss in a brown paper bag. That hasn’t changed.

My aunt had read at least some of my writing, though I’m not sure how much, and her advice remains invaluable. She gave me books to read, letting me know which were the good ones, and was firm but fair with her input on my own writing. I remember, as a teen, that her advice to live life first before attempting to write about it, irritated me, but, all these years later, yes, she was right. I’ve lived. Some of the stuff, I would have rather skipped over, but it really is all grist for the mill.

From an early age, Mom’s publicity pictures, and a newspaper write up or two, preserved in a scrapbook, dazzled me. There was a long while when the fact that I got kicked out of robe choir, in front of the whole class, for having “a bad voice,” (teacher’s own words, sadly; I remember those, too) or the endless wait to see when her bone structure would make itself known in my own face vexed me greatly. My dad confirmed that I was adopted when I was twenty-two, but I’d figured it out by then.

I am, however, Mom’s daughter, and Aunt’s niece, without a doubt. Every year, at Christmas, I channel Aunt in a way that still gives me the heebie jeebies. This year, I may go all out and bust out the Robert Burns grace even if we end up ordering Chinese delivery for Christmas dinner. The decorations, the way presents are organized, that’s all Aunt, and, at this stage of the game, I think it’s safe to say those things are going to stick.

As will the advice Mom gave me, driving me to elementary school one day. I don’t remember the time of year, though I want to say it was spring. I wanted to stay home sick, and she didn’t think it was needed. As one who works from home now, myself, I do understand the need for a peaceful workspace and the room to breathe when the others have left for the day.

I was still fairly young, as I was in the back seat, and still angling to get my way. This was a short day (we had one of those a week, I think, at that time of year) and Mom remained firm. I didn’t even have to do a full day, only a shortened one, and I’d be fine once I got going. “The more you do, the more you’ll want to do,” she told me as we pulled into the parking lot, and, at the time, those words were the last thing I wanted to hear. She was right, of course, and, if saying it here counts, yes, Mom, I get it. I don’t remember anything about that day, but I obviously made it through.

Sometimes, especially on tough days, it’s tempting to say “nope” and retreat. Some days, that’s needed. Other times, though, the best thing to do is get dressed, get out of the house, and go do the work. Show up. Open the file. Change seat if needed. Put something down on the page and make it pretty later. I think Mom and Aunt would both approve of that.

 

 

 

 

Back in the Saddle

annabowling 2 Comments

Monday again, and the first time in two weeks that I am sure enough that I will make it out of this cold alive. Semi-normal day yesterday, which left me tired but accomplished, so time to see about getting back in the creative saddle again. This is both an exciting and daunting project.

Let’s take that one at a time. First, the excitement. Not coughing, not leaking sticky goo from my eyes, and not having a throat made of sandpaper (well, most of the time. Cherry cough drops, I still love you.) are all things I highly appreciate, as well as the ability to concentrate for more than ten minutes at a time, and I have missed my daily trips into 18th century England and one very complicated romance between two unlikely lovers. I finally get to start preparing for Christmas, my very favorite holiday. Tomorrow,  I get to combine a trip to the pharmacy for Real Life Romance Hero with a writing session at Panera, and, best of all, a twilight walk through the park, which is lit up for the season, and I can take pictures. Were we not between ovens, I would be churning out batches of cookies in celebration. Absence does make the heart grow fonder when it comes to writing, and I am very eager to get back to that.

Even so, there’s the daunting aspect. I’ve been away from active work on this book (okay, these books, as work on two novellas also fell by the wayside) for two weeks. Ugh. I am insanely grateful I don’t count words at this stage of the game, because I would probably give up in disgust, and the mere thought of miscarrying yet another novel is more than I want to even think about if I want to get back in the groove. It’s easy to get discouraged when friends have cover reveals and new releases and new sales and I’m staring at a blank page and wondering if I have ever met these story people before. Add to that the fact that ‘not enough layers’ and ‘clean sweep’ can apply to the same project at the same time.

On the one hand, that doesn’t seem entirely fair, and on the other, the thought of a fresh, blank document excites me. The fact that this is not the first time on the same project makes me want to punch things (I suggest keyboards in this instance) but if it’s going to make a stronger story, and a stronger writer, well, okay then. I’d tell anybody else that it seems perfectly normal and natural to have been knocked back a couple of paces by that much sick time, and that it’s not time lost.

Perspective is always a good thing. During that time, I read, and did art journal work that helped me see that, when a scene (or project) isn’t working, it’s likely one of those two things. Kind of like a sketchbook for writers. The only thing I actually sketch is boxes at the time, and even those aren’t something I want to show around, but all those layers of playing “what if” and “how about X” and saying “yes, and” to myself do sit in my mental crock pot and simmer together into something I might not have put together if I were actually looking to do so. Alchemy, that’s all I’m going to say.

That, and permission to trust myself. Still working on that one, and it’s scary. If I keep the story in my head and in my head alone, then I can’t fail. The story and the characters, and the writer herself, get to stay safe and protected. Nobody can hate them. Nobody can not “get” them. They can’t stumble and fall. They can’t grow stronger. Nobody (but me) can love them. I know these characters well enough to know that they aren’t going to stand for that. The last two, really.

So, I keep what I have, and I open a new document, set up my bullet points and blorch onto the page, as many layers as the substrate will hold. Spew it out now and make it pretty later. That’s what subsequent drafts are for, after all. Reading a friend’s ms and talking to writer friends on the internet reminded me of the joy to be found in storytelling, which is as important as the craft and discipline. It’s a balancing act. That sneaking away to scribble down the movie in my head is the first step toward a finished ms, a new sale, a cover reveal, a great review, and all of the rest. The story has to happen first. Nothing else can happen without it, and none of that can happen without me. Daunting and exciting both, that.

Daily Pages and Rambling

annabowling Leave a comment

Beautiful grey, rainy day here in upstate NY, and I am stuck inside because, yes, cold is still hanging in there. Real Life Romance Hero, aka Patient Zero, is back at work, and I am making a stab at doing the same. If I can be half as productive as my immune system, I may be able to make up for lost time, or at least babble incoherently.

The notebook in today’s picture is from Punch Studio, as is the small notepad propped against the monitor. Yellow sticky notes are plain Post-Its and get tossed as soon as I’ve dealt with whatever is scribbled on them (the note to buy Kentucky mints -the kind with jelly inside- has been there for far longer than I would care to admit. Must deal with that soon.) This notebook is for my version of morning pages; two pages, one sitting, as soon as I can in the day, all by myself, no stopping, no censor. Two pages, rather than three, because a) achievable goals, and b) the interior pages are printed with two-page spreads in four different designs. I’ve been doing this since October 26th, every weekday, and so far, so good.

One good thing about being sick is that staying home gives me a better perspective on how I use the space in my home. Going into the office, closing the door, and breaking out pen and paper feels like an indulgence, far more than flipping open my laptop and pounding keys. It may be convenient to flop in the recliner, put the lap desk on my lap and make with the clickety clack, but the alchemy happens with paper and pen. Being around my art supplies (which really need more organizing, when I am done with all the drippiness) also helps remind me that, while there is discipline needed for a productive writing career, there is also a measure of creative indulgence.

Right now, I’m making a list of historical romances that take place at least part of the time in Russia. I’ve had a passing interest in Russia since one of my dad’s ex-fiancees (yes, plural,  and yes, only one at a time; my dad still had it far into his later years) and there is a lot of Russian interest/influence in ballroom dance, which I also love (strange life lesson learned; if you’re at a dance show and the Russians get up and leave before intermission, the show is bad.) but it wasn’t until the heroine of Her Last First Kiss told me she was half Russian that I knew I had to get farther into the zeitgeist of eighteenth century Russia. Not that my heroine would know much about that, as she’s never been outside of England, nor seen her Russian father since she was seven, but I need to know these things.

For some, maybe most, this would mean stocking up on biographies of real life historical figures. I do not work that way. I have tried, but it’s Sony and I’m Beta or the other way around (or whatever the distinction was; technology and I have a complicated relationship.) While I don’t advocate using movies and other works of fiction as sources of factual research, for me, those things have what I need even more. The feel of the time and place. Yes, I know that’s interpreted through writers and editors and actors and directors and set and costume and la la la I can’t hear you.

I’m not writing scholarly texts. I’m writing love stories that take place in a certain time and place, and, to the characters living this story, they don’t live in Historical Period X. They think they live in Now, because, to them, they do. They don’t know who’s going to win the war, or if the long-awaited royal baby will be male, female, stillborn, or healthy and whole. With the state of communications (as I tell RLRH, they didn’t have Twitter in the eighteenth century) unless my characters already live near Court, they aren’t going to know about the goings on until they are went-on-a-while-agos. Whole different mindset.

Annnd I’m rambling. Which is fine, because rambling is still writing.  The post is still here, and I’ve stayed more or less on topic, so I am going to call this a win. I’ve gone through an entire box of tissues, have a big dent in my second bag of cherry cough drops, and am feeling up to actual food for lunch. It takes my mind longer these days to wander off, which I count as a good thing. Characters, however, are still prone to do whatever they want as soon as they hit the page, but it works better that way. Easing up on the iron grip gives them and me both room to do our thing, and if this cold from beyond hell had any hand in making that happen, then I will accept that purpose without too much complaint.

 

 

Now it’s November…

annabowling Leave a comment

I’d meant to get this up yesterday, but life intervened, turning the day to family things, but that fits with what I meant to write anyway, so I am going to consider that a point of illustration. Anyway, it’s November now, and I am not Na-No-ing. Old news, and for those wishing I’d shut up about that already, I will, in a bit. Which is to say, probably December, because there’s no denying NaNo is everywhere. I’ve done it, I’ve won it, I’ve lost it, I’ve gone a few rounds with it, lost a few books to it, and have some interesting scars to show for the battle, but, in the end, there is one thing that NaNo gave me that I will always treasure. It gave me the knowledge that I am enough; the way I work is enough. I don’t need to conform to somebody else’s process or beat myself up for not doing so. As a writer, this is what I do every day (the writing, not the beating up, though that, too, some days. A lot of days. Working on that.) so a special month dedicated to it? Good for some, but I’m working on some things over here, so not for me at present.

This week, I’m looking at three things. First is Her Last First Kiss, which is hopping around between bullet points and research topics as the puzzle pieces come together. This is what I do, dive headfirst into the primordial ooze of a story and splash around until order forms, and then have a blast organizing the whole deal. It’s going to be rough, it’s going to give me fits, but, in the end, I can do what I do, and there will be a rough draft. Then I get to smooth is out and make it pretty. I can do this. I have done this. I am doing this now and will do this again with the next book and the next book and the next, repeat until dead.

Second is the novella with Collaborator Melva. This is our beach ball that we are passing back and forth, no pressure, just fun. We each get to play to our own strengths in this one, draw from each other’s, and stretch enough to make it a reachable challenge.

Third is my postapocalyptic medieval, Ravenwood, which may get retitled (and probably billed as medieval, never mind that the Plague does count as an apocalypse, but probably more on that later.) A call for submission has come up, and I do have a completed ms sitting right there in my flash drive, so a good once-over and off it shall go. I won’t be devastated if John and Aline come riding back my way, but if they do find a new home, I will be thrilled.

For the first time in a long time, I feel on firm ground where writing is concerned. This has come as the result of a LOT of writing. Some good things, some bad things, more free writing notebooks than I would care to count, filled with whinges about how hard writing is and things I wish I’d done and things I wish I hadn’t done. It comes from a ton of reading: the year I devoured every Barbara Samuel (and psuedonyms) I could find; my big fat YA summer-that-stretches-into-autumn (David Levithan, may I have your book babies, please and thank you?) and my current foray into 90s historicals and  one dead laptop (well, really two, counting the one RLRH inherited) and one new one and recapping TV shows. It’s working on the next incarnation of From Fan Fiction to Fantastic Fiction (coming in 2016, because this fall got crazy) and, by dint of that, taking a closer look at why I love what I love and how I can use those elements in my own work, and picking others’ brains and trusting myself and diving into piles of stationery and notebooks and picking up old habits that worked in the past but I gave up somewhere along the way because of “supposed to’s” and “should” and and and and and…well.

Fall has always been the time of year when I get my super powers back. I feel more energized with the shorter days, when the world gets tucked in for the night, nice and early. When hot chocolate and cider flow, and Thanksgiving is soon to be upon us, and there are sweaters and boot socks and colorful leaves, and a crisp snap to the air. It’s time for curling up with a good book (or ten) under an afghan, with cup of tea at hand, and, since I am me, a notebook (or ten) on the other hand, because I have to multitask even when reading. It’s November. I’m back. I got this.

Typing With Wet Claws: Almost Anty’s Birthday Edition

annabowling 4 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. This is a special week, so I wanted to have a special picture today. Tomorrow is Anty’s birthday. In case you are wondering how much Anty likes her birthday, it is very close to this:

Because I was born wild, with no humans around to record these sorts of things, we do not know my birthday. The shelter people said I was about ten months old when Mama and Anty brought me home, so we count ten months back from the day I was adopted and use that when a vet needs to know these things. Anty is also adopted (I do not know how people shelters work when getting human kittens to their parents) but she does know her birthday and even the time she was born. That was eight in the morning. Anty was a morning person right from the start. Her mama and papa got a phone call very soon after that, to tell them Anty was born and it was time to come get her.

The way the story is told, Anty’s mama had to go on a plane by herself because Anty came sooner than they thought she would come and Anty’s papa still had to be at work. One would think humans could be more understanding about things like that. They probably would be, now, but this was a different time. Family lore says that Anty’s mama got very worried on the plane ride back, because she fell asleep on the plane and when she woke up, she could not find Anty. At least not her face, which should have been sticking out of the blanket in which she was wrapped. Anty was all right (as you may have guessed, because she is here now) and had squiggled herself down to the very bottom of the blanket. I do not blame her. When I was first brought home, I huddled in the back of my carrier, too, and I was a big girl of ten months. Anty was only three days old and had no idea what was going on.

She likes to think she has learned a few things since then. Like how to write good stories. She did teach a cat how to blog, so that is something. Anty really likes birthdays in general. They do not always have to be hers, which is good, because birthdays are one to a human every year. She gets  equally excited about Uncle’s or Mama’s birthdays, and she even likes my adoption day (that is in December, and she says that allows her to tick “Christmas kitten” off her bucket list. I am glad I could help her with that one.) This one is hers, though, and she is glad that it happens in her favorite time of year, October. The days get shorter, nights get longer, leaves turn pretty colors and pumpkin flavored things are everywhere. It also means Halloween and Thanksgiving are coming up, and then Christmas, which is her favorite day of the whole year, even more than  her own birthday. It counts as a birthday, though, and an important one for people who believe the way our family does.

This birthday is Anty’s, however, and, for her, it is the start of a whole new year. She likes to mark the start of a new year with new notebooks. Here are two.

Future story receptacles?

Future story receptacles?

Both of these notebooks are blank right now, but they will not be that way for long. The solid blueish notebook is a Moleskine, and has a soft cover and dotted pages. That will be a new thing for Anty to try. Well, she did try dotted pages once, but the pages were a funny whitish color and hurt her eyes, so she had to give that notebook a new home. She is interested in trying the dotted pages on Moleskine paper, which is a nice, soothing ivory.

The other notebook is by Punch Studio, which makes very very pretty stationery. Anty has been accumulating a lot of Paris-themed stationery, but here is the funny thing; she does not have any Paris-set ideas right now, so she is not sure why. She knows why she collects peacock-themed stationery (they are very pretty birds and probably taste good, because they are related to turkeys. I have recently started eating turkey, in case you are wondering, but Anty collects peacock things because they are important for a future book.) but the Paris thing remains a mystery.

There are some other things in this picture, taken on the desk that Anty had wanted fro her own since she was a very young human kitten. Now it is hers, so that is another life goal reached. The stuffed bunny in the corner is Happy Bunny. He says “let’s talk about me” when Anty squeezes him. She says he is good for focus. The big square thing is a stress cube. It is good for squishing when Anty needs something to do with her hands. Sometimes that is a lot, during the part of writing when she stares at things that are not there and has to think really hard. The fact that there are sticky notes and papers around these books are proof that they are going to be written in very very soon. The solid notebook will become her all purpose computer bag book once the current one is filled. As for the pretty Paris book, she does not know. It has pretty page inside, three different designs repeating. Anty thinks this might be a good book for morning pages, as it is easier to write on pretty pages than completely blank ones. She is not sure yet, though.

What she is sure of is that it is time to read Critique Partner Vicki’s chapter, so that is about it for this week. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

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

Until next week...

Until next week…

Crabby Monday

annabowling Leave a comment

This blog entry exists because I want to cross something off my to do list. It’s one of those days where writing related things are getting done, but the actual writing has been scarce. Not anybody’s fault, as domestic tornadoes happen when domestic tornadoes happen. This is one of those days when inspiration takes a back seat to discipline. Which means, in short, butt in chair and fingers on keyboard and/or pen to paper.

I’m sitting in my favorite coffee house right now, a cup of cold tea in front of me. It was hot when I ordered it, but it, like me, today, is pretty much kind of there and that’s it. Blah. Not what I was going for, for either of us. I will credit the barista with leaving the infuser in the cup and giving me a generous splash of skim milk in the cardboard cup so that I could let the tea, a delicious chai I get almost every time I come here, brew to perfection and then add the right amount of milk. That’s not exactly what happened, my apologies to the tea.

This is one of those parts of writing that is not exactly glamorous. Meh. Cold tea, blank brain, tired body. Still, the idea of totally blowing off the day bothers me. It rankles. Doesn’t fit. I mean, I could. That’s within my grasp, and, some would argue, within my rights. Part of me would actually like to do that, but then it runs straight into the part that rolls its eyes. OMG, are you whining about how hard writing is again? No wonder it’s been a while since your last book release. Sit down and do it. It’s easy. What, you can’t? Must not be a writer, then. There, there, you tried. Failed, but tried. Now go  home and put away the laundry and…mmm nope, that’s about all I’ve got, but I will flip through this list of anxiety triggers while you wrangle the laundry and then we’ll see which one we’re going to go with for the rest of the day. How does that sound?

Actually, not very good. Not very good at all. True, not every day can be a perfect one, and the slower days do get balanced out with the days when everything seems to want to come out of my head at once. There are times to produce and times to take in so that I can produce later. Even on those days when story brain says “nope,” there are still things I can do. Crit a critique partner’s chapter, discuss the next steps for the novella (partner and I there agree we are wrapping the end of the beginning and are pumped to get to the beginning of the middle) and write a blog entry. Not too shabby there, even if I am spending most of the entry blabbering.

Let’s see, what else? Conversing with some writer friends via email and discussing the use of angst in romance (a favorite topic) and trading songs that make our hearts hurt but also create plot bunnies. My favorite contribution for that discussion would be “Accidental Babies,” by Damien Rice:

Somewhat related to Her Last First Kiss, as there is a love triangle of sorts in that one, though my heroine wouldn’t say she’s in love with the other gent, but there is some fondness there. The mood fits, though, and it makes my heart ache the way my heart needs to ache for my hero’s situation at a crucial point in the book, so been listening to this one quite a bit, but haven’t actually moved it onto the book’s playlist, but that will probably happen soon.

So. Getting around time to wrap this sucker up and call the entry done. Likely also time to stick my nose in a good book and refill the well. Mondays are going to happen; that’s a fact of life. Okay. They happen. The adventure comes with what I choose to do with them. If putting out is an issue, then it’s usually time to take in. Even spending time in favorite places can count toward this. The brick walls of the coffee house, the street-level windows, eclectic tables and seating, the ever-changing flow of other guests; these are all good things. I am looking forward to the month progressing into Daylight Savings in the not too distant future, when I get to look up from keyboard or notebook and watch the day fade into night. Those evenings when I can go to the coffee house in daylight at walk home at night, still on my regular twoish hour stint, that’s the good stuff. I can pin my sights on that and keep moving toward it.

In the meantime, this entry is here. I did it. Novella progress is moving forward and partner and I agree on where the next step goes. Chapter critted for critique partner, and I can shoot her a note saying I’m brain-free today, but would love to brainstorm tomorrow. Then…maybe reading, maybe adult coloring book, maybe movie. We’ll see. What’s important is that this entry is here.

Happily Ever After, Epically Speaking

annabowling 1 Comment

First and foremost, Happy Anniversary to Real Life Romance hero. Not our wedding anniversary, which is a different date, but the anniversary of the day we fell in love. We are mushy enough to remember the exact day (having it happen on a national holiday probably helped) and mark the occasion. I will not give the number of years, but I can say it was in another century, in a far off land called Santa Barbara. We were two college students, majoring in things that have nothing to do with what either of us are doing for work at present. Go figure.

This year, we marked the occasion with lunch at home, dragged out of the freezer and microwaved, because it’s the day before grocery day, and we both had stuff to do. Also because one of us cut the amount of bread in the household down to one slice while the other was off doing laundry. In a completely unrelated piece of news, a grilled peanut butter sandwich is apparently delicious but super melty to the point of liquefied peanut butter. I will not say which of us did what, because a good marriage always has some secrets, but it did end up with us dipping things in Malibu sauce (1/2 mustard, 1/2 mayonnaise, whisk together; excellent on chicken) at the kitchen counter and discussing what we thought life was going to be like cough cough years ago.

College majors, once of crucial importance, turned out not to be so much, in the end, for us. RLRH is now in the restaurant industry, and I make up stories, blabber about books, and tell people who kissed on TV. Living in NY state? We’d hoped. Now we’re doing it, in a beautiful apartment in a wonderful neighborhood we never want to leave. We share that apartment with Housemate, who knows all our dirty laundry and loves us anyway (or none of us can afford the blackmail; that’s also a plausible explanation.) Though I studied early childhood education, I did not take the degree, nor have I worked in that field since my last nannying gig in college. A few years in retail, many more in family caregiving, but the writing has always been there, even during the dark years when not much was actually coming. I did not expect those years.

RLRH and I went over a few things we would have never expected, if Present Us had been able to talk to Cough Cough Years Ago Us. Health issues, financial crises, deaths of parents and other loved ones, watching friends become parents, career derailments and changes of direction, changes of interests, the eclectic bunch of friends we’ve accumulated, a kitty who does not climb, jump or cuddle (but she does blog, so that makes up for a lot,) and other things we never would have thought of. We’d cut out on a school activity (not a class) that day, long ago, and threw off the person who’d gone out to look for us, because those two people on the athletic field looked like us, but he and I were not a couple, so that couldn’t have been, person kept on looking. We eventually returned to the event, knowing, from the time we’d spent soaking in the other’s company, that something was different, and always would be.

I’ve always known romance was my writing home. That was true back then, and it’s even more true now, maybe because I’ve lived the ups and downs of what life has to offer, with RLRH at my side. A lot of romances are courtship stories, maybe even the majority, and that’s fine. Falling in love is romantic, that’s for sure. Everything is new and shiny and overwhelming, and nothing has been like this before, and maybe, maybe…. RLRH and I threw around a lot of “did you ever think we’d…” questions to each other. Some were answered with “yes,” some with “no,” some with incredulous laughter, and, my favorite, a soft “I’d hoped,” from him.

That’s the other level of romance, and one I like to include in my books whenever possible. A lot of the current romances take place over a short period of time, so focusing on the courtship makes sense. That other level, though, the love that has been tried, broken, mended, grown stronger, as broken bones do, that’s also worth celebrating. Those stories also need to be told. That’s one of the reasons I’m studying some of the older historical romances these days, the ones with a bigger scope and taking place over a longer period of time. For me, the very best historical romances, the ones that linger with me years and decades later, are epics. Sagas. Romances worthy of historic record. Those make my blood sing, so that’s where my focus is going these days.

I once described an early work, which I still find satisfactory these many years later, as feeling like I was dancing in a room that was too small. That’s the best way I can put it, even now. I had a sense of restraint then, a keen concern about what I was “supposed” to do. Levels of historical accuracy (I go for verisimilitude now)  and sensuality and which periods are desirable and which are not. Word count is  a big bugaboo for me, useful in marketing and editing, but needs to be firmly locked away during the drafting process. I need to tell the story the way I tell the story and then we’ll focus on the form and all that during the next pass through.

Am I where I thought I was going to be all those years ago? Mostly, no. Am I where I need to be? Probably. Am I where I actually am? Most definitely. One of the questions RLRH and I asked each other was, did we think we were going to be this happy? Life isn’t perfect. It’s not ever going to be, and of course we have some what ifs, but we also have each other, and that’s what this happily ever after thing is all about, in life and in fiction. Onward we go….

Thursday Rambles

annabowling Leave a comment

“Be willing to expose yourself to your readers. Plumb the depths of your own experiences and emotions in order to make your stories authentic. Don’t hold back.”

— Madeline Hunter

Wednesday’s post was going to be a special midweek update from Skye, but a domestic tornado chain touched down, here it is, Thursday, and Skye will be able to make her regular Feline Friday post tomorrow, so this one is all on me. Which would be lovely if I had any idea what I had planned to write here in the first place. Keeping the discipline of thrice-weekly blogging is one of my goals, so here I am, and my complete lack of focus means that I am going to babble and trust that some sense will come out of all of it at some point.

I will admit that, in a not that long ago romance writer’s conference, I had the great good fortune to be seated at the same table as Madeline Hunter at one of the meals, but did not get to talk to her. Despite my best attempts to peek at her name badge, I couldn’t get a good view, and the noise level was high, so shouting across a big round table wasn’t the most practical thing to do. Point is, I was at the same table with Madeline Hunter for an entire meal, and did not get to talk to her. This will haunt me to my grave. Either that or until my next opportunity, because these things do roll around again.

Granted, due to the lack of a clear name tag sighting, I didn’t know who the new arrival to our table was, and her only answer to a tablemate’s question of “what do you write?” (universal writer to writer icebreaker there) was “historical.” If I had known, I would have loved to talk with her. I still remember, long, long ago, when Madeline Hunter first came on the scene with well-received medieval romances, and feeling betrayed when she switched to Regency. I’m all for writers writing in different eras, and, in fact, I encourage that. I’d like to see more of it. What hit me hard at the time was the loss of a writer who used the medieval setting in all its grit and glory, leaving for more populated Regency assemblies.

There are multiple reasons a writer might switch time periods. Medievals have been declared dead multiple times since I started reading romance novels, let alone writing them. I don’t recall if it was that same conference, though it may well have been, where I pitched my own medieval, with a working title of Ravenwood, to a very interested agent, who said she loved my voice, quoted my own lines back to me, and assured me she would totally read this book for her own pleasure…but she couldn’t sell a medieval in the current market. Did I have a Regency?

I was working on one at the time, and told the agent that. She said great, send it when it was done, but don’t rush. She wanted the same level of polish as she could see in the medieval. Well, dear readers, I can say that I tried. I love the characters in that once upon a time Regency, love the conflict, love the resolution, but, as Critique Partner Vicki pointed out, I hate writing Regency. Georgian seems to be my natural default these days, so, when I do go back to that manuscript, everything will get bumped back a few decades, to fit within my natural reach. It’s going to take a while to get to that point, as I have the current novel and novella that need my attention, and I’ve blabbered on this subject before, so I won’t belabor the point.

Does this post even have a point? Does it need one? It’s written, that’s what, or mostly so, and I’ve had a few discussions, at various places on the interweb, about writing historical and how and why and all that. Defining what makes a particular period appeal to a particular reader or writer is far above my pay grade, so I’m not going to try (today) but here’s what I do know: I need to feel the era. To us, it’s history. To the characters, it’s life. Barring time travel (and I have a time travel waiting to burn off its own bad juju – this may be payback for all the jujubes I inhaled as a kid) the characters don’t know how the war is going to turn out. They don’t know they’re inching up on another ice age, or that the thingamahoozie is going to be invented two months hence, thus changing the world forever. They don’t know any of that.

What they do know is that they want the same things we do; home, health, shelter, food, companionship, purpose, love. All that good stuff. The way they get it, though, that’s where we find the differences, and what historical characters can and cannot do are influenced by any number of things. I find that endlessly fascinating. It’s easier for me to climb into a character’s skin and move around in their world if that world strikes a chord in me and plucks me like a stringed instrument so we can make beautiful music together. No doubt that can happen in any number of settings, and there are probably some I haven’t ever thought I’d employ that, someday, I will. For now, it’s Georgian, and, for today, that’s one blog entry down.