Use It If You’ve Got It

October 22, 2018annabowling Leave a comment

Yesterday, I picked up a new notebook for my morning pages, as I am rapidly nearing the end of my current notebook. Current book has a unicorn on the front, pastel rainbow pages inside, and I usually go for glittery gel pens when writing in it, because what else is one going to use in a pastel rainbow unicorn book? There is a lot of pink, purple, and turquoise.

In contrast, the new book is by Punch Studio, who have the key to my maximalist heart, now and forever. I knew, from the moment I first saw this book, in a bunch of other books on a shelf, that I would need this one fo rmy next round of morning pages. I already know which pens belong with this book, and there will be some purple involved, but a blackened purple. All of the pens that go in this book will be blackened versions of their colors: red, brown, green, blue, purple. That feels welcoming and comfy and right. What comes after that book is finished? Ask me when this book is full.

Contrast with the other book I picked up last night, which is almost definitely going to be my new traveler’s notebook/bujo setup for 2019. For the last year and change, I have been drawing my own planners, which, while I love the result, takes a whole lot of time that could go toward writing, so a purchased planner really is in my best interest.

That may have something to do with why and how the entire Dylusions Dyalog system fell into my cart, when it was on clearance at a well known craft store. I thought I’d saved pictures of the one spread I have completed so far, but there were technical difficulties. I’ll add those later. Point is, the aesthetic of this creator is not my usual thing, but there’s an energy about it that keeps drawing me back, and, equally importantly, I already have it. Never mind that it’s a size of notebook I’ve never used before, and I am not sure yet what pens go with this paper. I need an agenda, this has an agenda, and, if I don’t use this system, why to I have it, hm? Hm?

Now. Writing. You knew this was going there, right? I have characters and plots and settings and tropes, all tapping their collective feet in the waiting room of my imagination, and I am wracking my brain for new ideas? Some of that stuff is so old, it could vote, on its own, without me. I am letting it gather dust, why, again? Right now, I am having trouble finding an answer, which is probably an answer in itself.

What am I saving them all for, anyway? The pretty notebooks, the fancy pens, the star-crossed lovers, the family saga, all of that good stuff? I am waiting for what, again? A special occasion? Define special. When I am good enough? At what? By whose standard? When the constantly changing market is right? Right by what standard? Is there some criteria I haven’t mentioned? Probably. It’s probably a complicated question, but the answer could be an easy one.

Maybe writing romance novels, and writing morning pages aren’t that different, after all. Maybe it’s as easy as finish one book, and start on the next. If they seem like complete opposites, or strange bedfellows, at first glance, that’s perfectly okay, as long as there’s that core of love there, that feeling that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, and the thought of getting up every morning, to face these particular pages for months at a time, fills me with enthusiasm, rather than stress.

Maybe that’s too facile a comparison, but, for today, I’m going to go with it. Not that this is going to stop me from acquiring new notebooks, or new ideas. That is flat out not going to happen, because A) I have a birthday this week, and B) writers spontaneously generate ideas, a lot of the time. Neither ideas, nor notebooks, however, do much good if they aren’t put through their paces. Not everything is going to be a winner, but we never know until we try.

Detour

October 18, 2018annabowling Leave a comment

Right now, by body is ensconced in my pillow pile, Irish fisherman afghan, knitted by Housemate, in my lap, notebook and early birthday present (also from Housemate) in front of me. My mind, however, gave me a jaunty salute as soon as I started swatching the pens, and hopped into the wayback machine.

Do I blame the pens, or thank them?

Since I swatch in color wheel order, the mnemonic, Richard Of York Gave Battle In Vain runs through the back of my mind. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet; it’s a pattern that stays the same, no matter what form the colors take. I’m still not entirely sure where brown fits in. Sometimes, I treat it like a dark yellow, sometimes it does its own thing between purple and black, or hangs out with other neutrals. Putting pens in color order sets the story part of my brain on the back burner, where, like the brown pen, it does its own thing. Swatching leads to putting actual English words on the page. Enough of that, and the words start to take on some semblance of content.

Today, working my way through the warm colors, my brain gave me a jaunty salute and trotted off toward the wayback machine. This time, it wasn’t Georgian England it headed toward, but Upper Shad Road, in Pound Ridge, New York, coughty-cough decades ago. Our family only lived there for one year, but my mother and I, sometimes my Aunt Lola, and I, wit or without our two dogs, too many a walk along that road, with the autumn leaves all around us, the air crisp, and only the occasional car zipping its way by us.

Back then, I was too young to take the walk by myself, so there always had to be an adult with me, and, especially if the dogs (one purebred German Shepherd, Schatze, and one beagel-y sort of mix, Spike) were going, no way was I going to turn down the chance to take that walk. My mom trained both dogs to sit quietly behind her, on the side of the road, whenever she said the word, “car,” and they were 100% on that, only standing again when she told them, “okay.”

The route was always the same, from our house, to the end of the road, or, if we were feeling adventurous, around the corner, to see a house under construction, and then on to Scott’s Corners, which had the local grocery store, and a couple of other shops. If it was Aunt Lola with me, then it was a sure deal that I was going to come back with a special treat. The very best of those was when I’d make the return trip with a brand new comic book tucked inside my jacket.

That is, I think I had it tucked inside my jacket. I was too young for a purse, and though my aunt or mom would have had theirs, I remember carrying my own stuff, so if it wasn’t in my jacket, it was in a bag from the store. Either way, the way I carried it doesn’t matter. What does matter is the way that I felt, on those walks.

Spending time outside, in the crisp autumn air, in the glorious riot of reds, oranges and yellows, the browns of trees and grass and dirt, the smell of happy, healthy dogs, the feel of their excitement to exist, period, and spending one on one time with my mom or aunt, were wonderful, of course, and stick with me even now. What stands out even more, though, is the feeling of that new comic, next to my heart, figuratively, if not literally, my mind whirling with the possibilities that lay within those pages., between two glossy covers.

Back then, I was super into Wonder Woman, so most of them were probably that, though I also liked the whole Batman family, and the Christmas/holiday season could not truly begin, before Aunt Lola bought me whatever Christmas edition of one of the Archie comics we could find. This was never outright stated, by either of us, but there are things that an eleven-year-old knows in the marrow of their bones.

There are things, as well, that a grown up writer knows in the marrow of her bones. Things we may not say aloud, or ever discuss with anybody else, but are true as true as true as true. Maybe that’s why they don’t need to be discussed, or put into real English (or Spanish, or Italian; our family was multilingual) words. Still, they are real, and they are true, and they are a constant that the grown writer can touch on, decades later, when long autumn walks involves crossing city streets (and wondering if she would have to teach dogs the word, “bus,” as well as “car.”)

It’s natural, this time of year, to think of the veil between present and past thinning, so maybe that’s why it’s that easy, today, for adult me to touch that particular bit of kiddo me. I am, right now, about the same age Aunt Lola was when we took those walks. Stories still make me feel the same way, all tingly and alive with anticipation, wanting to get home, already, so I can dive into them and experience the story world as vividly as I did the walk to get them, in the first place.

Granted, now, I am the grownup. Now, I am the one writing the stories, as well as the one reading them. These days, it’s historical romance and contemporary YA that make my heart skip its way along the tree-lined road, possibilities whirling around in my head, like leaves kicked up in the wake of passing cars. When I get home, it’s not to parents and hamster, but husband and housemate, two miniature rosebushes, and a stuffed cat that is standing in for the real one we do not have right now (that bit about the stuffed cat is exactly the same, alas.) The feeling, though? Exactly the same.

It’s easy to get distracted by the minutiae of every day life, the mundane stuff like trash and dishes, and adulting, in general. Even so, I am fully convinced that one of the girls in my basement (thank you, Barbara Samuel) is an eleven-year-old girl, her pockets filled with black licorice, and a comic book between jacket and sweater.

Typing With Stuffed Paws: Fine and Private Place Edition

October 12, 2018annabowling Leave a comment

Yo. Sebastian here. It’s Friday again. Domestic tornado-y week for Stately Bowling Manor this week, but those things happen. Writer Chick still got stuff done, though. I’ll get to that. For those who are wondering, my buddy in this week’s picture is a gargoyle. Technically a grotesque, because she doesn’t have some thingamajig that makes a gargoyle a gargoyle, but whatever. She’s guarding the roses, which seem to be growing fine. Only the one flower so far, but lots of branches and leaves. For those keeping track, Tudor is far and away outgrowing Lancaster.

Apparently, I am supposed to tie that kind of thing into whatever Writer Chick is doing this week, but even I know nobody wants to hear about how many times she took out the recycling (it was four, plus hauling two dead air mattresses outside, to the big dumpster) so I will try to keep things pertinent. The operative word here would be “try.”

Okay, so, there’s the Buried Under Romance thing. That’s here. If you’re looking for the featured image, it’s this:

Writer Chick is progressing through her To Be Read list, and doing okay, all things considered. If you want to follow her reading challenge on Goodreads, that’s here. She still has some record-keeping to do, or maybe that was my job? Whatever, we’ll figure it out. After naptime.

Right now, Writer Chick is focusing on getting more historical romances into her reading rotation, especially standalone novels that fall on the epic scale. That means a lot of going through the archives, and finding older books, some that she missed the first time around, and others that she loved and would love to revisit. Then again, there are a lot of much-anticipated YA novels coming out in the next few months, so this may be a tricky balance. Should be interesting to see how it plays out. She keeps meaning to get audiobooks on Overdrive, so she can listen to books while doing other stuff, but does she remember? Nooooo. She might want to start putting this in that big stripey book she carries around everywhere. I don’t know what she has in it, but it has stripes, so it has to be good, right? Because stripes are the best. I am strongly pro-stripe.

Tomorrow, Writer Chick goes to her local RWA chapter meeting. That’s Romance Writers of America, which means a big room full of Other Writer Chicks and Some Writer Dudes, where they talk about -you guessed it- writing. I’m probably staying home, but there is no rule against bringing felines of the stuffed persuasion into such gatherings, so one never knows. Could be a good photo op. We’ll see what happens.

With domestic tornado-y weeks, the writing time can be a precious commodity. Fortunately, Writer Chick is into that whole pen and paper thing, so she has a secret writing place where nobody can burst in on her. Can you guess what it is? Here is a clue:

Writer Chick is considering using this as a new author photo, even though the background is the hint as to what room it was where she took this picture. If you need a second hint, all of the furniture in this room is made out of porcelain. It has a door that shuts, there are no windows for distracting views (the foliage is rather splendid this time of year) and, at the moment, it has what is probably Writer Chick’s favorite pine-scented candle of all time.

The downside of this is that the room in question is also the human litterbox, but, as Anty reminds the other humans, there are public litterboxes in the lobby, and they know where the litterbox paper is kept, so there really isn’t a problem here (though there will be, if they press their luck any farther.)

Objectively, this is a pretty good solution to needing some private time/space for writing (or reading; the bathtub is great for that.) One, everybody has to use that room, so getting into it is very rarely questioned. Secondly, privacy. Nobody wants to bust in on people in the litterbox (except for paramedics; they’re allowed) and, in case they do, there is a curtain right there, that can be used to subdivide the room. My best guess is that Writer Chick would not want to be in that room if somebody else needed it for litterboxing, but deadlines are deadlines, if you know what I mean.

For creature comforts, this room is loaded. It’s climate controlled, with a heater and a fan. There is an endless supply of water, both hot and cold. Thirst is no longer a problem. This particular human litterbox is the default location for all of the Skype chats Writer Chick has with her contemporary writing partner (I haven’t decided what I’m going to call her yet. Writer Chick calls her “Melva.”) on Monday nights. Writer Chick is still figuring out the best way to position her phone for the video chats, but trial and error usually sorts that kind of thing out in short order. Or long, if it’s more error than trial.

Clock is ticking for Writer Chick to be out the door (she’ll want to put on things like makeup and go-outside clothes first) and for my sunbeam time, so that’s it for this week. Catch you next time.

Falling Into Place

October 10, 2018annabowling Leave a comment

The fact that I am writing Monday’s blog on Wednesday should give some indication of how the week has gone, so far. The fact that today’s picture was taken last week, with vague plans to say something about writing by candlelight, and/of my practice of evening pages (same as morning pages, but at night, a brain dump before bed) only confirms that indication.

The fact that I am seated on my pillow pile, in my corner, with the box fan aimed at me, one third of the way into the month of October (and precisely two weeks before my birthday, for that matter) proves that it is now October in New York, and this sort of thing is to be expected. I am, in fact, not surprised, and dressed appropriately to haul a hamper full of stinky textiles down to our building’s laundry room, in leggings, flip flops, and an oversized t-shirt that was not oversized when I bought it, so yay me. Real Life Romance Hero passed by aforementioned laundry room, in a winter coat. He may have second thoughts about that by the time he gets to his destination. I am sure he will have a tale to tell, when day is done.

The fact that I am babbling here speaks to another alteration to my schedule this week, and I will be having my weekly Skype confab with contemporary co-writer, Melva, at two-thirty this afternoon, instead of seven on Monday night. It’s anybody’s guess when the laundry actually gets put away, because there also has to be a recycling run, and quick dash into the grocery store. The rest of the day will probably be scheduled by negotiation, which is par for the course around here, these days.

Um, Anna, some of you may be asking, what does any of that stuff up there have to do with writing? You know, the making up stories thing? You still do that? To that, I say a hearty “oh heck yes.” There is no turning that kind of thing off. Trust me, I’ve tried. It did not go well. To those who are indeed asking that question, hang on, I’m getting there.

I have found, from necessity, that I can, indeed, write by candlelight, sometimes with a fountain pen (extra points when it is a vintage fountain pen) and my quest to reconnect with some of the books and/or authors who inspired me to write historical romance, especially the sort of historical romance that I love best, continues. This morning, I finished reading Enchantress Mine, by Bertrice Small, a standalone historical romance set around the Norman Conquest.

I have a bunch of thoughts and some feelings about this re-read. I’d totally forgotten, for example, the Easter egg of a minor character, that serves as a loose connection to the author’s Glenkirk books. The connection is minor enough that I do still consider this a standalone, which I noted in the notebook I grabbed on my way to the laundry room, because I had found myself in the position of needing a laundry bag notebook.

The last time I did laundry, I filled my previous laundry bag notebook, and, at the same time, emptied the pen I was using in that book, a Pilot Frixion clicky pen, which I mourn, and will replace. Since reading and writing are the only two things I do during laundry time (besides doing laundry, of course) the fact that I finished a book, a notebook, and a pen, on my last two laundry trips has to mean something. Markers of progress, and all that. (Mmmm, marrrrrrkerrrrssss…..)

Speaking of which, the filling of notebooks and emptying of pens leaves me with some pressing pen related issues. Namely, the ten slots in the pen case that I’ve meant to keep as my everyday carry in my computer tote, and the elastic pen case that goes with whatever notebook is going in the laundry bag next. I have dedicated notebooks for both Her Last First Kiss (props to those who have accepted the task of kicking my butt back into gear with this oen; keep doing what you do) and for Drama King and related books. If I have time before the Skype session, I will scribble down the snippet of dialogue for an upcoming Drama King scene, and see what Melva thinks before that bit goes any further.

Co-parenting a novel, as it were, is a different enterprise from going it alone, and both approaches have their plusses and minuses. I’m glad I’m doing both, and I’m glad, even, that both are in a phase of readjusting and reconnecting. Maybe part of that is due to, finally, being in my favorite season (need for box fan aside; you should see the foliage around here) and some encouraging words (you know who you are) or maybe it’s only that I have hit that part of the journey, where things grow and change, and the stories, as it were, are big enough to get themselves dressed in the morning, as it were.

As much as I love planning, some things plan themselves. Finding out, for example, that I can write by candlelight, and that I find it both calming, and has a bit of historical atmosphere, those are pretty darned good things. Knowing that I can smush my schedule around, and fit in the important things -the writing, the reading, the pinpointing why I love what I love- in with the everyday necessities, like laundry and recycling runs, well I’m not going to complain about that, not at all.

That’s all the time I’ve got for blogging today, so time to sign off, slap on some concealer and lip balm, and get my Drama King notebook open to a fresh page.

Intravenous

October 1, 2018annabowling Leave a comment

A few years back, I had several big life changes happening at the same time. A long-time friendship ended, there was a serious illness in the family, and I’d had to helm an interstate move of three adults and one cat who did not sign off on any of this. Needless to say, all of the above did a serious number on the ability to create. I have multiple Moleskines filled with random ramblings, trying to make sense of everything, but fiction? Not so much.

Those changes also did a number on my ability to sleep, so there were more than a few times that I said to heck with it, slip out of bed, and plop myself in my recliner, in the dark of pre-dawn, underneath a hand-knit blanket, and plug in my earbuds. I’d kick back in the recliner, eyes closed, and let the music play, Skye kitty nearby, to send love beams my way.

The songs on that playlist didn’t pertain to any one particular novel project. It wasn’t the time for that. What it was time for, was to feel. There were a lot of sad songs on that list, loss songs, and songs that were just…big. Meat Loaf. Mary Chapin Carpenter. Elton John. Snow Patrol. HIM. Others.

Lying in that chair, under the blanket, one thin wire connecting me to the thing that I needed to have pumped into me, reminded me of sitting with my father during his dialysis sessions. By the time the sun came up, I’d have enough to get up and start doing things. In time, I started writing fiction again.

I remember those mornings, sometimes, when I find myself facing a blank page, or looking askance at my to-do list. On those times, I’ve found that it’s usually time for a creative transfusion. This morning, that included watching Bob’s Burgers, in my pajamas, while eating oatmeal, and then meandering a few feet to the left, to the kitchen/dining room table, and mess around with some of the art supplies that had been sitting in their moving boxes for far too long. watercolor, ink and stencils layered onto the paper, guided by instinct. The language part of my brain went on the back burner, my conscious attention divided between the backlog of TV shows I’d been putting off watching, and the images that composed themselves, as overthinking was the farthest thing from my mind.

And then…because there always is an “and then,” because that is how stories work, the tips of my ink-stained fingers tingled and itched to get at the keys. This entry wanted out of my head and onto the page, because after that (see previous comment about the inevitable “and thens”of every story) it would be time to rad Melva’s next scene for Drama King, and, after that, I can work on my own, and tomorrow, N and I get back on board with our mutual butt-kicking, for my historical and her contemporary. I am keeping one eye on library notifications, because I have some classic standalone historical romances on their way to me, to help stoke this historical fire. By which I mean get me back into historical mindset, because A) as much fun as co-writing the contemporaries is, I need some historical transfusion, and B) we are now in October, which means full superpowers should be going into effect, and I want to go at this as strongly as I can. There is also C) the fact that love beams do indeed come across the Rainbow Bridge, and writing between cats is, in fact, different than writing with a physical furry shadow.

There’s also the transfusion of last month’s Connecticut Fiction Fest, this past weekend’s Albany Book Festival (as an attendee, not a participant) and enough pages logged already in my reading tracker to put me two weeks ahead of my goal for October, on the first day of the month. Today, I got a transfusion of cartoons at breakfast, and cop shows at lunch, all the cups of tea I couldn’t have while the cold sore was in town, (totally making up for that now) and the agreement of all family members that now would be a good time to decorate our for-now apartment.

We still plan to find a pet friendly place some months from now. We can spend those months living out of boxes and staring at plain beige walls, or we can have some fun and put our stamp on the place. Expect progress pictures, as we go.

Such is the way a new normal begins. Do what you can, when you can. When it’s a struggle to put out, it’s time to take in, as much as it takes, for as long as it takes. Creative transfusions can come from old favorites, or the most unusual sources. For me, I like to throw it all in there, and see what sticks. Sometimes, the enthusiasm for writing will wane, especially when there are big life changes, even when the desire, or even the need, to write, hasn’t gone anywhere.

Even as the enthusiasm can ebb, it can also flow. Sometimes, that’s at a trickle, and sometimes, after a big enough or effective enough transfusion, crash in like a tidal wave. Usually, it’s somewhere in between. I have a list, in my bullet journal, of things that I know make for good transfusions: Spotify playlists, secret Pinterest boards, favorite movies, books, and TV. Taking the time to set up a Sims world exactly the way I want it, then spend long weekend afternoons, playing through generations. Hauling my beloved antique rocker (I don’t know how old it is, but it’s older than me) out of storage, and setting it up in my corner of the living room. It doesn’t recline, but it rocks, and that’ll do.

Friday Favorites (in Flux)

September 28, 2018annabowling Leave a comment

One week in, and I’m still not sure what I want to do with the new format for Friday posts, while we are between resident felines. Sebastian has taken a more active role in the household, Real Life Romance Hero and I plopping him on the other’s lap, shoulder, book, etc, at random intervals, so Sebastian might find his way into a guest hosting spot of Feline Fridays.

The search for pet-friendly housing will continue, but we will also be taking a breather. New feline units are expected, probably, in spring. Until then, I still have blogs to fill, so I’m going to have to blabber about something. As of right now, Friday Favorites feels about-right-est. We will see.

One of the things I have always liked to do when I am at an in-between place, is to find a romance-friendly used bookstore (the romance friendly part is important) and tuck in for a couple of hours. It’s not a real visit, if I don’t spend at least some time sitting cross-legged on the floor, combing through the bottom shelves, my eyes peeled for classic historical romance and hoping for a rare gothic sighting. There were, until fairly recently, a couple of such stores around here, but both closed last year, and I think that may have been it for UBS locations in NY’s capitol region. Nothing against brick and mortar stores that sell romance novels, and e-books and Amazon are lifesavers for sure, but there is something about the experience of a UBS.

Lately, my reading has polarized into two distinct camps: contemporary YA, and classic historical romance. Big, bug-squasher paperbacks that span years, sometimes decades, and continents, acceptable time periods ranging from the ancient world, to about five minutes before living memory. Those two genres, on the surface, couldn’t seem farther apart, but are they really? I’m thinking not. That thought has settled into place, and will probably be affecting the way I track my reading this coming year (and will probably practice before the new year begins.) What elements about each book drew me to them in the first place? What surprised and/or satisfied me during the reading process? What sticks with me after the book is done? What would I have done differently if I were the one writing the story? Consider it another chance for me to blabber at myself on paper, but the more I blabber to myself on paper, the more I want to write actual fiction, so I think I am heading in the right direction with this idea.

Stats and Buried Under Romance links will come back in October, possibly in a slightly different form. This past week has been largely spent wrangling domestic tornadoes, which do seem to be settling, and Monday marks Serious Return to Work.

This will, of course, require new pens (what doesn’t, am I right?) and possibly the creation of a new tracker or two. I am eminently self-bribe-able when it comes to pen and paper, and my mom was right – the more I do, the more I will want to do. First, though, there must be the kicking and screaming, the watching of streaming TV/movies while playing with art supplies, and watching the email to find out when the sam hill the library is going to let me know the books requested on inter-library loan are available for pickup.

Having the right kind of book, at the right time, is an important thing in general. For a writer? Essential. When I teach my Play in Your Own Sandbox, and Keep All The Toys workshop, we have an exercise I’ve always found to be tremendous fun. Not only asking ourselves what we like, but why we like it. What elements show up again and again. Right now, I find that especially exciting, so that my find its way over to Friday blogs.

There may, as well, be more posts going into more detail on the tools of the trade, aka pens and paper, possibly adventures in computer repair. Since we will soon be getting some furniture out of the local storage unit, there may even be a chance for a few shelfies, with explanations of what it was that earned specific books a spot on the shelf. Sebastian may or may not claim part of the shelf space for his own (such is normal when three cat people are between felines for a few months) but we will see what happens when things are actually in place.

For right now, we have a lot of flux, and I am going to have to call that a good thing. Flux is a time of change, a time to learn new tools, rediscover old passions, and build strengths, both old and new.

TLDR: Friday blogging is going to be a little different, but still fun. Catch you next time.

Until next time…

Butt in Chair, Pen to Paper

September 25, 2018annabowling Leave a comment

There aren’t a lot of articles out there on how to get back into the swing of writing after the loss of a pet. Personally, I haven’t found any. Hence the left foot right foot approach of putting butt in chair, and pen on paper. I work best in longhand. I always have. Still, there are times when it’s going through the motions. Writers and cats have a special connection, and Skye was, and is, my mews forever. At some point in the next couple of weeks, we will brig her ashes home. When we move, in time, to a pet-friendly apartment, we will add a new cat, or cats, to our family. They will be their own creatures, and I can’t say, before getting to know them, whoever they are, whether or not they will agree to blog for me. I have no earthly idea what Friday’s blog is going to look like, and I am okay with that. Maybe it will take a break for the week. I don’t know yet.

Last night, I had my weekly Skype session with Melva, to talk about Chasing Prince Charming‘s adventures in submission (we racked up a really good “no,” this week, so I count that as good) and where we are going next with its companion book, Drama King. I have a rough scene to smooth out, as soon as the immediate fam sorts out a domestic tornado, and, after I get Melva’s next scene, I get to rough out the scene that comes after that. Those whom I have tasked with needling me about Her Last First Kiss, you are doing a splendid job. That kind of thing works well with me.

For the first couple of days after Skye passed, I didn’t have any energy to do anything but cry, or stare at the bleak, cat-less future. Losing a pet sucks, no question about it. I found myself scrolling mindlessly through the internet. Cat videos have been extremely calming, and looking through all of Skye’s photos also helps. I have spent more time than I would care to admit, scrolling through ranked lists that pertain to a daytime drama I followed avidly in high school and college, but haven’t watched even one episode, since. The teenagers I remember are the parents now, and there may even be a grandparent or two; I haven’t looked. There are some things I do not need to know, especially when I am emotionally vulnerable.

Other things, though, have risen to the surface. Over the past weekend, I had a lot of time to myself. Housemate made a trip to Camp Grandma, Real Life Romance Hero was at work, and I gave myself assignments with a stack of new art supplies. I put pens in a new pen case. Playing with pens is always a sure soothing method, which, for a writer, is also one that is readily at hand.

I read some. Not a lot. Some, though, and there were, in fact, more reading-related activities. I’d been following the worksheets N and I are using to connect ourselves to the projects it’s high time we get out there, when I heard about Skye. Things had been going pretty darned well, actually, and then, in an instant, BOOM. Life will do that to a person.

Melva, also, recently lost a pet, and, in our weekly chat, we tossed around the idea of our two cats on the other side of Rainbow Bridge, plotting something together. Could happen. Who’s to say? We commiserated, gave each other a little more time, and made plans to move ahead.

Which is why this disjointed entry is up here. Melva and I talked about how we need to take our own advice, on writing when dealing with real life plot twists. Adjust expectations. Do what you can, when you can, and, maybe most importantly, remember why you’re doing it.

Those of us writing for publication would like to see a royalty check, sure, but I’m talking now more about capturing that initial spark, the one that turned “I wish I could do this” into “of course I can do this.” As is often the case, thoughts became more clear when I sat myself down with pen and paper, and let the whole matter leak out onto the page.

Back when I was but a wee princess of eleven, I stole my mother’s copy of a seminal historical romance novel from her nightstand, and scurried to my hidey-hole under the big brass bed in the guest bedroom. My mom followed the flashlight beam, but too late. In the first few pages, while the heroine was still an even wee-er (more wee?) princess herself, I was sold. I’d found what I wanted to read and write for the rest of my life.

Big, thick, epic historical romance, that spans miles (sometimes continents) and years (sometimes decades) and drags both hero and heroine through one heck of a lot of trouble, before the triumph of their HEA…that’s my jam. I want to inhale that now, like oxygen. It won’t fill the Skye-shaped hole. I’ll have to heal around that one, and, when new felines come, they won’t fill it either, but make their own places, on their own terms.

There is still grieving. Other cat people understand that. There is also the steady, inexorable need to make story. Writer people get that. Sometimes the two things happen at the same time, and sometimes, they take turns. I am not in control of how they work that out. The only thing I can control is butt in the chair, and pen to paper. It can’t always be gold, but it can always be. That’s good enough.

You Asked For (Most of) It

September 18, 2018annabowling Leave a comment

Kitchen table seems to be my default workspace as of late, and, one week after my return from CT Fiction Fest, the normal routine is inching back into place. Since the normal routine includes candles, tea, books, pens, and paper, this is a very good thing. It also means I do the book writing thing, now equipped with my snazzy new tools gleaned from abovementioned conference.

Starting off a little differently this week, though (and not only because Monday’s entry is coming to you on Tuesday,) with answers to a few asks I’ve had in ye olde emaile inboxxe.

First, my planners. If you’re new, spoiler alert: I love planners. If you’ve been here a while, this is not news. For those who asked about my current system, I use the traveler’s notebook setup, aka one cover, holding four notebook inserts inside it.

Webster’s Pages classic and pocket traveler’s notebook covers

My classic (aka A5) cover is blush stripe, and the pocket size is blush. I am very into blush pink at the moment (it will probably be a very long moment) which is why I had to have the blush pink Artist Loft dot grid journal from Michaels. This is where I make my monthly and weekly spreads. I used to make daily spreads as well, but A) that takes a while, and B) my dailies migrated to a whiteboard on the refrigerator, and seem happy there, so who am I to move them? I’m experimenting with a minimalistic style in this planner, which is new for me, but fits with the blush, so it may stick.

My calendars are in Dutch, because I am learning.

Inserts for both covers are usually Moleskine cahiers or Volants, but Picadilly has some super nice A5 inserts, as well. I get both brands at Barnes and Noble. My new discovery is Yellow Paper House, on the website or Etsy, which makes gorgeous inserts with colored paper. Insert heart eyes emoji here. My favorite pens could take up another post all by themselves, but, for daily use, I like Pilot Frixion erasable pens and pastel highlighters (also erasable.) I like the clicky ones best. I am not receiving any compensation from abovementioned brands; merely fangirling over my favorites. This weekend, I plan to try my hand at making my own inserts, because A) I am a control freak, and B) I like pretty notebooks that do exactly as I want.

The next request comes from a conversation with friends, this past weekend, and the idea of top five books. This is a hard question for many readers, because how do you pick? Going with top five for right now, not of all time, and I can write more, later, in depth, about said choices, but, for today, my top five historical romance novels are:

Top five YA novels, right now, are:

I could probably break this down further, to give lists of specific kinds of historical romances, or YAs, and favorites that don’t fall into either category. (Nick Hornby, Evelyn Waugh, and (the real) V.C. Andrews, I am looking at you.) These will probably crop up in future posts, because A) instant post topic, on days when my blogging idea bank consists of “uhhh….” B) I will get to make a separate notebook to keep track of all of these lists, and C) I honestly could blabber about my favorite books forever. Ditto on the pens and notebooks, but a gal’s got to write sometime.

I am also putting a mental sticky note on the topic of abandoned notebooks, those that I started with the best of intentions and then…umm…yeahhh…:shoves stack of notebooks under bed, with foot: Some of them come back, as with Big Daddy Precious, aka the second from the bottom in the book stack, pictured. I fell in love with this notebook on sight, needed it, longed for it, and knew that I wanted to use it for Her Last First Kiss stuff. I started at it for longer than I would care to admit, then tried a bunch of different approaches, all of which fell completely flat.

Still, I packed it in with my must-haves when we moved, and, this past week, hauled it out of its box, when N and I gave ourselves homework to get ourselves back on track with the manuscripts we loved, but had been ignoring/hiding from/procrastinating. What better book than the one I can swear is giving me the side-eye? I hadn’t noticed it at the time, but the point in this notebook where I paused writing in it? Dead middle. Solution? One page break, new title page, begin as if this was a brand new notebook.

The one thing I have learned from these notebooks abandoned in midstream is that whatever I was using them for, and then abandoned, wasn’t the right thing. Maybe I thought it was the right thing, but it wasn’t, and that’s normal and natural, does not mean I am a failure as a writer and/or human being. All it means is that I need to turn a fresh page and try something that is not what was giving me guff. Decent advice for most things, really. I may need to make an art journal page about that.

Typing With Wet Claws: Post-Fiction Fest Edition

September 14, 2018annabowling Leave a comment

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday, straight from Camp Grandma. The humans have been talking about Forever Apartment options, so I think camp will be coming to a close sooner rather than later. I think. At any rate, this time, last week, Anty was getting ready to hit the road and come see me. She had to stop at CT Fiction Fest first, of course, and give her workshop with Anty Melva. I am happy to report, though, that she did come through with the laser pointer, but more on that later.

Regular readers, you know the drill. New readers, I have to talk about where to find Anty’s writing on the interwebs (besides here, because you are here already) for the past week. Anty would like to remind readers that the best way to make sure you get every single blog entry, even if it is posted on the wrong day (Anty is only human, and Sebastian is kind of lazy) is to subscribe, here on the blog. That way, the new entries will come right to you. Also, she may or may not be thinking of posting something special when she hits the next milestone for subscribers. (Spoiler: she totally is planning exactly that.)

Okay, here we go. First of all, Anty was, as always, at Buried Under Romance on Saturday morning. This past week, she takes a look at buzzwords. This is not a post about bees, in case you were concerned about that (I was. Bees are scary.) but about words in titles that let us know what things we might find inside those books. Think dukes, scandals, Highlanders, that kind of thing. That post is here, and it looks like this:

There are no actual bees in this post.

Even though the only thing Anty read over the weekend of Fiction Fest were her own notes and some handouts, she still has a favorite book of the week, and that is Eliza and Her Monsters, by Francesca Zappia. Anty gives this book a full five stars. Her review has big spoilers, so beware of that if you want to read the review. It is a YA, and it has romance and fandom, and art and writing, and, although Anty got this copy from the library, she is 100& buying it so that she can read it again. Her review is here, and it looks like this:

Seriously. Big spoiler.

If you are following Anty’s Goodreads challenge, here are the stats for this week. Anty has now read seventy-four out of ninety books, which puts her at eighty-two percent of the way to her goal, and eleven books ahead of schedule. I am going to call that well done. Keep going, Anty. Story in, story out. That is how it works.

Coming back from ta conference with a lot of new tools is how going to a conference usually works, at least for Anty. she attended a workshop on writing historical fiction/romance, presented by Melanie Meadors. Miss Melanie has some amazing fashion sense, and some very good advice on writing in other times and places, past or future. Anty took a lot of notes, in that workshop and others. I will let her talk more about that later, if she wants to share any of them.

The workshop Anty knows the most about is the one that she presented with Anty Melva, on writing through real life plot twists. Real life cooperated and threw a few plot twists Anty and Anty Melva’s way, but they made it to the hotel, and to their workshop, which, by all accounts (that they know about, at least) went very well. Some humans came up to each of them after the workshop, with follow-up questions, which made them very happy.

Another thing that made Anty and Anty Melva very happy was the professional critique Anty Melva had, on a sample from Chasing Prince Charming. Anty was not at the critique, because this was a one person at a time kind of thing, but the other humans knew that this book really has two authors. They liked the sample a lot, and had some comments on how to make it even better.

Anty and Anty Melva made good use of some pockets of times before things got started at various points through the weekend, to do some work on the next part of Drama King, and also for setting up the third book they will write together. There was even some talk about what they want to write together next, after those books are done, but that can be a topic for later.

Anty loves meeting people at conferences, best of all, and she made some new friends at this one, including another writer of historical romance. Anty has wanted a historical romance writer buddy for a long time. Maybe this is how that kind of thing happens. We will see.

No, on to the most important part of the weekend, and that is Anty’s visit to me. It was a short visit, but it still counts. I will allow that things might have been less confusing for me if there were fewer people in the room (there were three) and it was not dinnertime, but it was still a good visit. Anty spent some time grooming me (I earned my treat, let me tell you that) and then it was time for the laser pointer.

I find the laser pointer very interesting, but A) it was mealtime, and B) there were too many people watching me, so I only looked at it. I will try playing next time, when it is only me and Anty. That should be fun.

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

Typing With Wet Claws: CT Fiction Fest Edition

September 7, 2018annabowling Leave a comment

Hello, all. Skye here, for another very special Typing With Wet Claws, coming to you direct from Camp Grandma. Today is a very exciting day. because today is the first day of Connecticut Fiction Fest, where Anty and Anty Melva will be presenting their workshop. Their workshop will be at ten AM on Sunday, but today is the day Anty packs her things, and hits the road. First, she and Mama will drive to where Anty Melva Lives. Then Mama will come to Camp Grandma, to spend the weekend with me, and Anty will go, with Anty Melva, to Fiction Fest. If you are going to be there, make sure to say hi. Anty loves this whole networking thing.

The other reason today is exciting is because it is the day I will get my laser pointer. I am a little worried, because this particular laser pointer is also a pen, so Anty will naturally be drawn to it (pun unintended, but it can stay) but if I have fun with it, and Anty can see that, she will probably let me have it. Probably. I like playing with people more than I like playing with toys, and this is a toy Grandma should be able to handle. Anty wants to make sure I get enough exercise, and playing is the way indoor kitties like me do that.

Because the rule here is that I cannot talk about anything else (which is usually Anty’s writing anyway) let’s get to that. First, as always, Anty was at Buried Under Romance on Saturday. This week, she talked about the worst thing about great books. Can you guess what it is? That post is here, and it looks like this:

the struggle is real

Next, we come to Anty’s Goodreads challenge. Sebastian has spent most of the week in a sunbeam (to be honest, I probably would have done the same thing myself, so somebody still has to add a few dates and reviews, but, at current writing, Anty is now eighty percent of the way to her goal of reading ninety books this year. That means she has read seventy-two books, so far, and is eleven books ahead of schedule. Anty is a reading machine. Keep going, Anty. You’ve got this.

The favorite book that Anty read this week is A Map For Wrecked Girls. by Jessica Taylor. Anty loves desert island stories, shipwreck stories, and stories about friendship loss (and maybe healing) and this story has all of those things. Anty’s review of this book is here, and it looks like this:

Anty knows very well that she will probably come home with a, um, boatload of books from the conference. Probably. She has never been to this conference before, so maybe they do things differently on that front. I know Anty, though. Anyway, even though Anty is headed to what is basically Writer Disneyland, where A) she will be busy talking to other writers most of the time, and B) there may very well be books that people just give her, she is still bringing her Kindle, and probably a library book as well. I know my Anty. She is not going anywhere without reading material.

Anty is also not going anywhere without her planners. That is right, I used the plural. Besides Big Pink (who has a new cover; Anty will show you that later) she is bringing Li’l Pink, who has new inserts. Those inserts do not include the insert Anty made from scratch, because there is a very good reason why making traveler’s notebook inserts by candlelight is not a thing. That reason is because candlelight, while pretty, does not allow for a clear view of the colors a human is using. That is why Anty picked paper that she thought was pink, was actually neon orange. Faded neon orange, but still orange. Orange is not the new pink.

Good first try, Anty. As Miss H said, when Anty mentioned wanting to try a new creative thing, “go for it. First you’ll suck, then you’ll get better.” Miss H is pretty smart. She also recommended that Anty watch a movie called Black Panther, when Anty comes home from the conference. With a title like that, I am going to assume that this movie is about cats. I could say a lot about the need for feline representation in Hollywood, but that is for another post. Maybe if they need a sequel, Brown Tabby would be a catchy title. I cannot say it rolls off my tongue, because my tongue has bristles, because I am a kitty, but I think it’s a title that would appeal to a wide audience.

Now it is time for Anty to get packing, so that is about it for this week. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

Typing With Wet Nails

for the love of romance

reading