possibly pointless blabbering

Backing Up and Moving Ahead

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“You do what you can for as long as you can, and when you finally can’t, you do the next best thing. You back up but you don’t give up.”
–Chuck Yeager

 

Another Monday, another blog entry. Not feeling it today, but discipline and practice are both important, and I find that putting order to chaos satisfies me, so here I am. Morning spent doing housework with help of Housemate. This often consists of her sitting there and letting me chatter at her, as it was today, with me sitting cross-legged on the floor, the box fan in front of me, as I took apart the covers both front and back and cleaned that sucker with grapefruit-scented all purpose cleaner and paper towels. Odds are we aren’t going to be needing that fan for a while, as furnace keeps us toasty warm, and it is January, after all. So, into the newly reorganized closet for our biggest fan. I promise I only do this to mechanical fans, not readers. No reverse Misery-ing here, and, besides, readers are good to have around during all seasons.

The great Christmas ornament harvest of 2016 went well this morning. Good crop, and we hope for an even better return next year. As much as I love the whole process of decorating for Christmas, and will inspect the placement of garland and ornaments (the fact that we use a pre-lit tree is probably best for all involved, lest I get nitpicky about light placement as well; I have in the past.) taking things down is a much quicker and more ruthless process. Down come the lights, coiled, tied, boxed. I pluck ornaments from the tree like ripened fruit, in a matter of seconds. It’s all over in a handful of minutes. This year’s crop is planted in the storage boxes, labeled, and can now germinate for next year. Maybe next year will be the year I finally go for a second tree, which would have black and white ornaments only. Supplemental tree, not replacing the traditional one; I have to have my tradition.

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When I’m at a loss for what to blog about, my guiding phrases of “clean sweep” and “more layers” push me in the right direction. Taking down the Christmas décor and making better use of the closet space fits both of those criteria, as does yesterday’s library trip. Yesterday was a tough day, tired, emotionally drained and frazzled at the same time, and I strode through the library doors with one specific purpose in mind. I was going to grab an armful of romance novels.

I’ve written, recently, about how it’s been difficult for me to read a lot of more newly produced work (part of this, I am certain, is due to my reluctance to jump into the middle of a series of linked books; have to start at the beginning, for me, and there are a lot of series.) This time, I knew what I needed; romance. Historical romance. That’s my reading and my writing home. No matter what happens between Once Upon a Time and Happily Ever After, I know I am going to get that Happily Ever After, so pretty much anything is fair game in between those points. I did end up plucking a current release from the shelves, Cold-Hearted Rake, by Lisa Kleypas, which I started reading as soon as I got home.

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That’s the whole haul, for those who were curious. I’d gone with a vague hope I might find one of the Russian-related historicals on my list (and did, with Forever in Your Embrace) and fingers crossed for a Georgian (but not Regency) setting (When You Wish Upon a Duke delivers on that front) but, apart from that, nothing more specific than wanting a good grounding in my favorite genre. Carla Kelly always delivers on the emotional impact, so that was enough to put the book in my hand, and it had been a while since I’d read a good time travel, so The Last Cavalier fit that bill. If I could hit the snooze button on the calendar so I could snuggle beneath my fuzzy duck blankey and read them all, with endless cups of tea at hand, I think, at this point, I would.

Life, unfortunately, doesn’t work that way, but I can make sure I get some pages read every day, the same way I make time for my morning pages and have to at least touch one of the current fiction projects every day. As K.A. Mitchell, whose wonderful workshop on character relations this past Saturday gave me even more layers to slather on Her Last First Kiss, has said, open the file and change your seat. I have to open the file, or open the notebook. When I do, well, it’s right there. I have a pen in my hand, or the keyboard is right there, too (usually both, in most cases; that’s how my brain works best) and who would it hurt if I took a poke or two at things, hm?

Thanks to a talk with a new writing friend, who listened to me whinge about how hard it’s been to find where I should (note that should, there) including roundabout analogies and a diagram drawn on a napkin with rollerball ink, I am getting the chance to do both the clean sweep and more layers things at one with Her Last First Kiss. What, she asked, was the moment that changed my heroine’s life forever? What permanently took her off the path she always thought she was going to walk in life? Huh. Well. Had to think about that one, and then the answer came out all on its own. When her father left.

Sure, she was seven then, and I didn’t want to start that far back, but darned if the whole scene didn’t play itself out on my walk back home from that meeting. I sat down at my secretary desk, with notebook and fountain pen, and out flowed the whole thing. I didn’t have to yank any teeth. Didn’t have to force anything. Huh. I…remember how to do that. Don’t write a book. Tell the story. Remember back when I didn’t know all the rules, but blithely wrote down the movie in my head? Yeah, that.

Clean sweep. More layers. Easy enough when I don’t think about it.

 

Typing With Wet Claws: New, Old, Hot and Cold Edition

annabowling 2 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. It is also Frozen Friday. Our furnace is down (oddly enough, it has nothing to do with fur, although “fur” is right there in the name. Talk about misleading.) and the Heater Human is down in the basement now, working on it. This has been going on for a couple of days (do not worry, he goes home and hunts for parts and things and does other jobs and then comes back; he is not a prisoner.) and we are all ready to be warm again. Although I have a built in fur coat (maybe it is called a “furnace” because it is for humans, who do not have fur, and therefore need an external source of heat?) the humans do not, so they are wearing layers of clothing, wrapping themselves in blankets and drinking lots of tea.

Normally, lots of tea makes Anty happy, and it still does, but it is better when it is a choice and not a necessity. Anty is used to having cold times once in a while; we do live in New York, after all, and Anty has lived in the northeast most of her life. Uncle is from California, so this is a little different for him. I think he will be happiest of all when it is warm again. Heater Human says that if he cannot fix things on this try, he will get another Heater Human to come and  help. Things will be back to normal soon, which is a good thing. While Heater Human is still on the job, he has to ring the doorbell when he wants in. The doorbell is loud, and I hide under the bed when I hear it, in case it is the catpocalypse. (That is like the apocalypse, but aimed specifically at cats. So far, I have avoided it.)

Snuggled under blankets, with a cup of tea, is a comfortable state for writers, especially those, like Anty, who write about times long ago. To them, this would be normal. Cold weather means extra layers of clothing, gathering around the fire (I am sure that kitties made certain to get the prime spots in front of the big fireplaces when there was such gathering to do) and telling stories, making music or playing games. Also art. Anty has found that waiting for Heater Human to report his progress is a good time to take care of tasks she can do with frequent interruptions (writing is not one of those) and not much brain power.

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One of those things is going through some art supplies she inherited from her papa and seeing what can still be used. These tubes are a kind of paint called gouash. They are older than me. A lot older. They should be a very thick liquid, but they are solid. Anty did some research and found out that gouache is a special kind of paint that stays alive even when it is hard, so she had to find out if that was true.

It took some boiling water and some patience, but most of the paint can still be used if she adds some water to it. Now, the challenge is how to get it out of the tubes. Maybe the humans at the art store can help her with that. Getting these paints to work mean that Anty has another thing she can use in her art. The orange page below is painted with gouache, and is now ready to have other things up on top of that.

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Anty is also trying out some pencils, both colored and the regular kind, that were in the same box with the paints and her fountain pen. She thinks of these things as buried treasures. They might have been created a long time ago, but she can use those older things to make new things, from her own imagination now. It is the same way with writing. Sometimes, an idea or a character that did not work at one time, but also did not go away, can come to life at a later date. Sometimes, they can be even better when rediscovered than they were when they were first put away.

Now I have a confession to make. I stopped a lot during the writing of this blog, to investigate the heater below the window seat. It smelled interesting. Very interesting. That is because Heater Human really is a super hero, and made the furnace work again. It is also something older that worked when something new was added to it, which fits with this week’s theme nicely. I could not have planned that better. Now we are toasty again, but I think Anty will still consume the same amount of tea.

That is about it for this week, so, until next time, I remain very truly yours,

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Until next week…

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

Reading, (non)Resolutions, and Hypercritical Gremlins

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“When you are stuck in a spiral, to change the aspects of the spin you only need to change one thing.”
Christina Baldwin

 

Here we are, first workday of the new year, and I’m still not sure what I’m doing. Yesterday, Housemate and I took a two hour road trip to visit friends who host an annual New Year’s book swap. It’s been my favorite holiday gathering for years, and this time was no exception. Several hours of talk with old friends and new, copious amounts of food, and an eclectic assortment of books free for the taking.

I came away with a hardcover copy of  The Tenth Circle, by Jodi Picoult, which I highly recommend. Her voice, her unusual structure of this story, the imagery, use of time and perspective and :fangirl flail: I’ve read it before, after I saw the TV movie, which I found by accident, and want to read it again, in its time, at my leisure, possibly with sticky notes and highlighter in hand so that I can study and rip it apart and put it back together and take something of it into myself on a deeper level than before. I also got two cookbooks for Real Life Romance Hero, of which I know nothing other than that they are cookbooks.

New Year’s resolutions are not my thing; easily made, easily set too high, easily disappointed and left by the wayside, so I’m not going to do that, but I am paying attention to what I do and don’t like about life in general, and the writing life in particular. My two guiding phrases, Clean Sweep and More Layers, come into play here. According to Goodreads, there have been several instances over the past year when I have technically been “reading” one book or another, over a period of several months, when that isn’t exactly what happened.

What really happens is this: I start a book, with all the best intentions. I want to discover this new voice, dive deep into a favorite author’s latest, finally get around to reading a book I’ve had forever. Then the book or reading device ends up in the wrong purse, or in the bedroom when I’m not, or the battery runs down, or I left it at home, etc, etc. I need to read something by date X to write about it for one blog or another. There’s recapping to do. There are domestic tornadoes. I’m too bloody tired. I feel guilty. I feel angry. I don’t deserve to read if I’m such a horrible reader. If I’m that horrible a reader, I’m an even worse writer.

Oh, hello,  Hypercritical Gremlins.

HI, ANNA! CRAPPY NEW YEAR!

That’s Happy New Year.

NOT FOR US.

Why am I not surprised about that?

IT’S WHAT WE DO.

To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?

TRADITIONAL NEW YEAR VISIT.

Oh, okay. That makes sense. Anything specific you wanted to talk about?

READING. YOU BROUGHT IT UP FIRST.

What about reading? (As if I didn’t know?)

YOU STINK AT THAT, TOO.

Uh huh. Do you have any critiera about that?

YOU ALREADY SAID.  CAN WE  TAKE A SCREENSHOT OF YOUR CURRENTLY READING GOODREADS PAGE?

:blushes: No.

HA HA! BUSTED!

Okay, look, we’re not going there.

MAYBE YOU’RE NOT.

Fine. Reading is one of the things I want to change about this year, and both Clean Sweep and More Layers play into that.

WHAT ABOUT THE BOOKS YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO READ? YOU’RE SO FAR BEHIND IN THE BOOKS EVERYBODY IS TALKING ABOUT THAT WE SET ASIDE SPECIAL TIME EVERY WEEK TO POINT AND LAUGH AT YOU.

:shrugs: Well, I guess you can. It’s your time. First, it’s not possible for me to read all the books other people think I should read. Second, I don’t want to; there are enough books I want to read that I couldn’t fit the should-reads into my schedule. The average female lifespan is only so long. Okay, I don’t smoke or drink, stay reasonably active, but my genetic history is a giant question mark, so I am going to use my time wisely and read the books that appeal to me, when they appeal to  me. Reading for pleasure is something I do to feel happy, not guilty. That would take away too much of the pleasure.

BUT YOU’RE MISSING OUT ON ALL THE TRENDS THAT WAY. DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY SERIES YOU WOULD HAVE TO READ DOUBLE DIGITS WORTH OF BOOKS TO KEEP CURRENT? NOT TO MENTION SPINOFFS AND SUBSERIES?

If I want to read those books, I will. My natural inclination is for standalone stories, and always has been, so that’s what I’m mostly seeking out at present.

BUT EVERYBODY ELSE LOVES SERIES, BECAUSE THEY ARE SERIES.

How wonderful for them. They must have a lot of books from which to choose. Sometimes, including right now, I want to read one story, about one couple. Nothing at all wrong with that.

EXCEPT THAT YOU ARE WEIRD. REMEMBER HOW IT WAS YESTERDAY WITH ALL THE SMILING AND NODDING -SERIOUSLY, YOU LOOKED LIKE A BOBBLEHEAD- WHEN OTHER GUESTS TALKED ABOUT THE MAINSTREAM AND/OR LITERARY BESTSELLERS THEY WERE ALL  READING. ALL OF THEM BUT YOU, OUTLIER.

I hear you saying “outlier” like it’s a bad thing.

BECAUSE IT IS.

Interesting perspective. Can you tell me more about that?

WE’RE REALLY BUSY RIGHT NOW.

Doing what?

PICKING ON YOU.

Why am I not surprised there? No, no, don’t answer. That was rhetorical. What I’m getting at here is that it’s not possible for one person to read every book there is, so best to whittle it down to those that catch the individual reader’s interest. Anything else feels too much like a school assignment. Last time I checked, you guys are not my teachers.

OBVIOUSLY, WE CAN’T TEACH YOU HOW TO READ LIKE EVERYBODY ELSE.

I don’t want to read like everybody else, and if you insist on pressing the matter, I am an RWA member. I can whip out statistics on exactly how many romance novels were read last year.

WE’RE GOING TO GO BACK IN OUR CLOSET AND TAKE A NAP NOW. WE HEARD YOU’RE MEETING WITH A LOCAL WRITER FRIEND TOMORROW. GOT TO GET OUR REST, YOU KNOW.

Unfortunately, I do. You guys go rest, and I’m sure I’ll hear from you later. For now, I have some writing to do, and then the last few chapters of a delicious historical romance I would actually classify as women’s fiction, but that’s another story. Pun intended.

 

 

 

 

 

Plannering 2016

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Here we are, only two days away from a brand new year, and I do not have a planner yet. Neither do I have a wall calendar. I stopped using desktop calendars a few years back, because, well, I didn’t use them in the first place. I had grand ideas about using the daily pages in art, but I very seldom did, so phased those out, and don’t miss them.

Being without a planner, though, that makes me itchy. For the last two years, I’ve used pocket sized planners by Paperblanks. which are, hands down, the most gorgeous exteriors I’ve found on any planners (or notebooks, for that matter.)

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Green book is last year’s planner, black and silver was for 2015, and I would be happy to get another Paperblanks for this year, though I haven’t seen any at the Barnes and Noble where I usually get them. My original plan in going for the pocket sized planner was that I could then carry it around in my purse and/or computer bag, to have it at the ready at all times. That did not happen, either year. Each time, the book lived on my side table, next to my comfy chair, with occasional sojourns to my office desk. So, I’m thinking larger planner for this year.

Before I started with Paperblanks, I liked spiral bound planners with lots of images and quotes inside them. A New York themed planner turned into one of my first art journals, and an Irish themed planner, the last spiral bound (I think) one I purchased, is still waiting for its next use.  I’ve looked at a few of those this year, but haven’t found anything to my liking. The closest I’ve come is a Walking Dead planner, and even that registers meh on my planner scale.

Though I love Moleskine notebooks, and have an as yet unused hardcover (purple!) hanging around, I’ve never used a Moleskine planner, which may be something to consider. Thinking about Moleskines also got me thinking about their cousins, Markings and Picadilly, of which I have several hardcovers. Add to that the brave new world of the dot grid softcover Moleskine I like a lot more than I thought I would, and I’ve started thinking of potentially DIY-ing my own planner from one of those.

Do I have any idea how that would work? Not a clue, though if I’m going to DIY a Moleskine, I could as easily DIY a larger Paperblanks, thus getting the gorgeous cover. Problem there is that I’ve only seen lined Paperblanks, though the website says there are some unlined. With my lack of depth perception (truly, it could have its own show on the comedy network) I need some guidance if I’m going to mess around with the format of a page. The dot grid in the softcover Moleskine is perfect for that, letting me divide the page into whatever boxes I need for a particular use, while not cutting through the words and images (because I am learning to use images now.)

I’ve found I am far more visual than I had previously thought, and I really do need something going on with the page for my brain to stick with it. Much as I love the Paperblanks, if I do go with another of those, I’ll need to alter the innards in some way. Which means I get to tinker with my existing supplies and expired planners to see what might work. A light wash of color on each individual day, so my eyes can easily pick them apart should do the trick. We’ll see how that goes.

For now, I’m still in the discovery stage. Maybe this year will be a different sort of planner, a fresh start to which I can apply more layers. Maybe I will find a way to DIY an existing notebook into a planner (have any of you had experience with that? I’d love to pick your brains) and maybe I’ll find the perfect premade. While I am antsy that I’m not moved into a new planner already (a perfect tucked-away week activity if ever there was one) I’m also pleased that waiting until after the first of the year means getting exactly the same planner I could have purchased before Christmas, at a hefty discount. I have fond memories of the other Barnes and Noble we used to frequent (now closed) and the Moleskines we’d often find on clearance there. I have to admit I almost got a Peanuts Moleskine planner, on sale there, a couple of years back, but couldn’t commit to a whole year of Peanuts. If the planner is themed, it has to be something I love-love, not merely like.

As for wall calendars, I’ve learned that those often have to wait even longer. Last year, I lucked out early and found a calendar by a photographer whose work I admire (and frequently appears on Studio Oh! notebooks) but have not seen this year’s version, so no clue what I’ll eventually pick. Real Life Romance Hero has asked for an Old New York calendar for the kitchen, which Housemate and I both second (and third?) so that’s likely what we’ll be getting for family use. I’ve made some halfhearted attempts at making my own wall calendar from blank versions bought at craft stores, but have never made it past January with one of those, so not pinning my hopes on a homemade calendar this year.

Maybe this is all part of where I am creatively as a whole. I’m much more focused on keeping the camera, as it were, on the romance when I write, because that’s what makes me happiest. No matter when or where, it’s the love story that counts the most. Everything else has to serve that, from setting to tone to supporting cast. Getting to that point took me several years, and novels-that-wouldn’t, so maybe it’s the same thing with planners this year. Maybe it’s time to kiss a lot of figurative frogs before I hit upon The One this year. Maybe I’ll stumble into something I never thought about before, and find it’s a perfect fit. Kind of ironic (cue Alanis Morrisette) that I’m not able to plan my planner purchase this year, but it’s also fitting for the creative life, so I’m going to go with whatever comes and see where that takes me.

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Random Skye shot for readers (:cough: RLRH :cough:) who said they missed “the writing cat.”

Treasure Box

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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.

 

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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

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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:

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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:

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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)

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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

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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

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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…

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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.