reading

Another Meh-nic Monday

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It’s been one of those days. I’m tired, Real Life Romance Hero is not feeling his greatest, and I’ve written and erased false starts to this blog at least five times. This has been one of those days when it feels like I’m smashing my head against a brick wall instead of putting fingers to keyboard. It’s not entirely unproductive. I wrote some in longhand while at the Laundromat this morning, but I’d like to have done more. The day isn’t over yet, so maybe I still will, but maybe it’s time to fall back on an old bit of common sense. If I’m not able to put out, then maybe it’s time to take in for a while.

Now that it’s finally August, with school supplies and even the first trickles of Halloween merchandise in the stores, summer doesn’t seem quite so endless anymore. The weather has been gorgeous the last couple of days. Cool, gray and rainy. We should be getting thunderstorms later tonight. Skye is not terribly thrilled about that, and I’m not sure it’s going to be RLRH’s weather of choice at present, but I’m looking forward to it, hopefully to be observed from beneath a comfy afghan, cup of tea optional but likely.

RulerBlackboard

at least that’s the plan

Today, I took down the cobbled-together  calendar I’d assembled from blank calendar pages, paper clipped to last year’s calendar, and replaced it with the ruler-framed chalkboard. I have my planner when I need a calendar, and there’s a calendar right on the computer. We’ll revisit the calendar thing when we see the 2017 collections appear. Having something intentional on my wall, and something I can easily change at will, feels like a much better fit that a mess that gave me a headache every time I looked at it. If I really super need a calendar in that particular spot on my wall, I can draw a grid on the blackboard, but I don’t foresee that becoming a screaming need in the immediate future.

DailyCarryAug12016

Current daily carry

New office supplies are always a mood booster, and this time of year means it’s time to stock up on the necessities at a bargain price. The big notebook (which is for a particular project) doesn’t fit in the pouch, but that’s why I have the mini Moleskine Volant. Even on days like this one, when the mehs set in, the lure of fresh paper, pens and highlighters, is pretty darned hard to resist. Bonus points for encouragement from Sir Winston Churchill.

SkullCup

my new drinking buddy

Well over halfway to the end of this entry, so entering free babble mode here so I can cross “blog entry” off my list and get to that carrot on the stick, the reading. Reading can do a lot to turn a meh day around, so my hopes are high that this will be the case. Current  reads include, but are not limited to,  Marrying Winterbourne, by Lisa Kleypas, and  Me and Earl and the Dying Girl, by Jesse Andrews. I’d seen the movie version of Me and Earl, loved it, and binge-read my way through Jesse Andrews’s other novel, The Haters, which I also loved, so had to give the book version of Me and Earl a shot. So far, so good, even if I’ve only been able to read in short spurts lately.

That right there may be a big contributor to today’s meh-ness. Taking in story is important, especially for those of us whose careers depend upon putting out story. Especially-especially for those of us getting back up on the metaphorical horse. That’s how we make the transition from mundane world to story world. That’s how we hone our own voices, by reading/hearing the work of others. Earlier today, H and I chatted on Skype, her sharing tidbits from her current reading material – the letters Alexander Hamilton wrote to Eliza. We both agreed that, if Alexander were alive today, he’d be constantly texting Eliza, who would probably appreciate him dialing it back a notch, because raising eight children and all that kind of thing, does require a portion of a gal’s attention. I actually snort-laughed when H shared a video of Lin-Manuel Miranda, at a Ham for Ham event, reading from the actual letters, came to the part where Alexander suggested he and Eliza start numbering their letters, because obviously  some of them were getting lost, and that way, they could tell which ones. This would be letter number one, and would she please write back soon?

The above was indeed relevant to my interests, as Hero, in Her Last First Kiss, carries a portable (lap) desk around with him; Hero would totally be on Alexander’s side with this one. Numbered letters; why didn’t he ever think of that? Okay, there we go, babbled myself back into story mode. Mission accomplished.

:cracks open paperback:

See you Wednesday.

Typing With Wet Claws: Heart of a Storyteller, Hand of a Smurf Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Anty wanted me to get this post up early in the morning, but that is not what happened, for a couple of reasons. First, it is sometimes hard for Anty to get to sleep when it is hot and muggy (I do not have that problem, thankfully. I can sleep anytime.) Then, when she finally did (after helping Mama to give me my pill, which I do not like) she crashed, hard. Then she remembered she had a lot of things to do, the first of which was dealing with my stuff. All I will say is that I hit the trifecta today. It is a good thing Anty has puppy pads and Febreeze. Also, Anty had to do laundry, and, because it was late, it was while a lot of people were there, instead of no people, which makes for a different experience, and crabbier Anty. Anyway, if you are wondering why this is showing up in the afternoon instead of the morning, that is why.

Because part of our deal is that I have to talk about Anty’s writing first, I will do that now. She has been busy. First, her Buried Under Romance post on the struggle of getting into a book that isn’t quite working is here, and it looks like this:

 

BUR

Anty loves when readers leave comments. She will even answer them.

 

Anty also wrote a review of a book she found very interesting, If I Fall, by Lauren Oliver. That book got Anty thinking about voice, emotion, and characterization, a lot. Her review is here and it looks like this:

GOODREADS

Yes, Anty is pondering how this could work in historical romance.

For actual fiction writing, this has been a good week, too, summerbrain not withstanding. On Tuesday, when Anty met with Miss N, Anty had the hands of a smurf, because she is still learning how to refill fountain pens. Also because she had a blueberry bagel, but, mostly, it was the ink. Not only did she get ink on her hands while filling her pen, but when she took off the cap, she shot a stream of inky blue water all the way across the table, because she had not gotten all of the water out when she rinsed the nib. I did not see that, because that was at Panera and I was at home, but there is a picture, so I will share that with you here:

IMG_20160726_120710 (1)

Heart of a storyteller, hand of a smurf.

Anty finds that writing in longhand is her very best way to get the ideas out of her head and into readable form. She is also very thankful that first drafts are supposed to be rough, because this one is. That is okay. She is laying down the foundation, and she can go back and make it pretty later (even though she likes to do the actual writing on pretty paper; you cannot see it much in this picture, but her paper is very pretty. The design is mostly on the borders, and her writing is in the middle.) Right now is when she follows her characters around and writes down what they do. This is not the time to be concerned about whether the language is entirely period specific, so it is okay if she has a character respond with “FML” after something very, very, very inconvenient happens. That is exactly what she did, actually; she can go back after the draft is done and translate that to its eighteenth century equivalent. She can also go back and figure out how Heroine’s very young half-sibling would address her in a letter, especially since English is not the half-sibling’s first language. That would be Russian, for those who were wondering.

Yesterday, Anty did remember her notes, and they amounted to a lot more than she thought that she did. She did not want to have to stop working on the book to take care of other things, but I have a very persuasive “feed me” face. Please refer to today’s picture, in case you have any doubts about that. There were other things she had to do, as well, including reading, because story in means story out, but I think it was mostly my “feed me” face, even though she was at the coffee house and I was at  home. My “feed me” face is that strong, trust me on this. Even so, Anty still has Hero and Heroine hanging around her brain, talking to her whether or not it is writing time. That is when she knows she has hit her stride and is on the right track.

Since Anty is making her “I need the computer” face at me, that should probably be about it for this week. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

i1035 FW1.1

Until next week…

 

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

This Is My Brain On Summer

annabowling 2 Comments

I had plans for this afternoon. I was going to head to my favorite coffee house, with the legal pad on which I’d written stuff for two scenes of Her Last First Kiss, and transcribe in air conditioned comfort, directly under a ceiling fan. Good in theory failure in execution. The hitch? I left the legal pad at home. Since I live less than a full block away, there was the temptation to ask the barista to hang onto my iced tea while I raced back home, but I am not racing anywhere in this heat. I’m already sun and heat sensitive, and not going outside any more than I absolutely have to until this heat dome lifts.

So, today went to plan B. I had some Beach Ball work to do, and switched gears to take care of that. First up, check on the comments Melva gave on the chapter I sent her. Which cut off a full two pages early than the actual scene. Okay. Find backup copy, pray it has the missing pages (it did) and send off the correct version, as well as the compiled document with all of our scenes in it. These are more or less in order, and, seeing them together, criminy crikes, this is a book. Still in the gestational stage, but definitely a book. Guy and Girl (to differentiate from Hero and Heroine) have got to their first threshold of contact. Plot arc and romance arc progressing, historical adjacent stuff inserted at the proper (we think) time, and seeds for future things planted. This is all a good thing. Not what I had planned for the day, but I am calling it good. I can pick up on what I wanted to work on today, tomorrow, and the world will not  end. Doing things in a different order is still doing them, so forward we go.

Possibly into the babbling portion of this blog entry, because this is the last thing on my list for the day. It was going to be one of the first things, but see mention of doing things out of order. There are times, when the unrelenting heat stays unrelenting, that the only thing to do is plunk one’s feet in cold water and crack open a book somebody else wrote. When putting story out isn’t working, take story in; refill the well. A reading break, if nothing else, gets my mind into story mode, in general, which is a good thing .

When the heat gets too high, and invites its BFF, humidity, along for the ride, it can be difficult to slog through the brainmelt and actually get stuff done. Interesting timing there, with this brainmelt arriving the same time I’m getting my stride back, writing wise, but that’s how things work, I suppose. Resistance builds strength and all that. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. Story, story, story, story, story, story, story. That’s my happy place, any time of year, and slipping into storyworld makes consecutive days of 90plus temperatures somewhat more bearable.

As my mother used to tell me, the more I do, the more I’ll want to do, and she’s right. Every morning, I drag myself to the morning pages, even when I have no idea what I want to put on those pages. It’s the discipline that’s building the practice. This is telling my brain that this is what we’re going to be doing for the majority of the day. The pretty pages mean my eyes want to stay on those pages, and good thing, because I have two more notebooks by the same makers, to take up when I finish this one. Okay, one and a half, really, as I’d tried using one of them for one thing, and that Did Not Work Out. That, though, was before I discovered rollerballs and fountain pens, so that notebook is only resting for a little while.

Exercising any muscle makes it stronger, which is why I set myself the discipline of three blogs per week. Okay, two, but getting a cat to write the third one for me is pretty darned creative all on its own, so credit there, surely.

Allrightyroo, that is the magic 700 words, so this blog entry is d-o-n-e, done. Tomorrow, Hero and Heroine, tomorrow, I am coming for you. For now, air conditioning and reading break. Toodles.

 

 

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Too Darned Hot Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Even though I am the one with the built-in fur coat, Anty  is the one most affected by the heat. Uncle had a rough day, too, yesterday, and even Mama has been feeling sluggish, and she is usually the hardiest in this weather. Before I am allowed to talk about anything else, I have to talk about Anty’s writing first, so we will do that now.

Anty’s most recent Buried Under Romance post is here, and it looks like this:

BUR

Do you like to go fast or slow?

Summertime has never been Anty’s favorite time of year, because it is very hot and bright, and she is sensitive to both of those things. That means that, for most of the summertime, staying inside, in front of the box fan, during the day is the smart thing to do. Thankfully, since Anty is a writer, this actually works in her favor. Well, apart from the whole lack of energy thing. Do not worry, though; when autumn comes, Anty will get her superpowers back. She is not willing to wait for a couple more months to get to the top of her game, and so she has to make a couple of adjustments here.

Since Anty is a morning person, getting up super early helps. It is still cool in the morning, and  her brain is all fresh from sleep. The house is quiet, too, so it is the perfect time for her to write her morning pages. She is excited to start a new morning pages book, and has settled on the Papaya! Art spiral bound book for her next round of morning pages. If you have missed that post, (it is here) that book looks like this:

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She still does not know what pens she will use for that, but that is okay. She will know what to use when the time comes, and admits that she will probably have to do an ink test, even though she doesn’t want to make any mistakes on a book this special. Come to think of it, she feels the same way about the books she is writing, but there, too, she is learning to make adjustments.

Miss H, one of Anty’s writer friends, reminds Anty that nobody ever has to see a scene if Anty really thinks it is, um…stuff, (Miss H did not say “stuff.” I am using it as a euphemism for what she really said.) but Anty does have to write it. Anty is very tempted to say bad words to Miss H when Miss H says this, but she settles for saying the same thing right back to Miss H when it is Miss H’s turn. That is the important thing. It is okay to write the scene while scared of writing that scene. Getting even the roughest version out of the brain and onto the page or screen is what is important here. There will be time to make it pretty later, but nothing can be done if there is nothing on the page. Anty finds that it can be difficult to get over perfectionism, but it is also necessary. Sometimes, that is the biggest part of the battle, and once there is something, anything, on the page, then the rest comes easily.

This week, Anty has been working on both Her Last First Kiss, and the Beach Ball, although not as quickly as she might like. As I mentioned above, it has been very hot, and there has been a lot of humidity. I usually find a doorway with good air flow (the bathroom hallway is the best, because there are no windows, the floor is linoleum (or would that be lion-oleum, because it is comfy for kitties?) and, if I am in the right spot, I can catch breezes from the living room fan, Anty and Uncle’s bedroom fan, and stay in direct line of sight of the pantry door, which is where the humans keep my food and treats.

Even though Anty is most dominant, she is too big to flop in a doorway, and so she has to take other measures. Her comfy chair is in front of the living room fan, and the master bedroom door can close, keeping all the cool air inside. Her office even  has a ceiling fan, so that gives her another place she can work comfortably, even when it is not a good idea for her to go outside even the short distance to the coffee house. Even so, there are some days when it is flat out (and I am flat, even though I am inside) too disgusting to brain.

Anty is learning that, when it is difficult to put out, then it is time to take in. Because her body loses water, salt and potassium when the weather is hot, then she needs to put those things back into it by what she eats and drinks. The same way, since she puts out story when she writes, she needs to take story in between writing sessions. Reading is the best way, in her genre and out of it, to both stay grounded in why she loves what she loves and to inject some new energy into what she’s already doing.

 

Sometimes, the shift happens when Anty is not even looking for it. Today, while doing laundry (she went very early, so she could be there and back before it got too hot) Anty read a chunk of one of the books she got from the library earlier this week, and, when it came time to read the next chapter, she took out her mini notebook from her pen pouch to make a couple of quick notes. Yeah, Anty, those pages are more than a couple of notes, but that is exactly the point. Keeping one’s well filled means there will be enough to draw from when the time comes.

Anty says that time has come now  (also for my lunch, so there’s that) so that is about it for this week. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

i1035 FW1.1

Until next week…

Skye O’Malley Hart-Bowling

 

 

 

 

Mental Health Day

annabowling 2 Comments

This may be the only thing I write all day. Then again, maybe it’s not. I’m not sure, at this point, where the figurative road will take me today, but I knew, when I woke at two and four and five and six, that this was a day I needed to recharge. The weekend had its share of domestic tornadoes, the weather was hot, and, at the time I got up (well, some of the times,) I fully expected temperatures in the high eighties, and blazing sunlight, neither of which are conducive to me at my best. When I come up short with topics for my morning pages, I write about what my ideal plan would be for that particular day, if I could do anything-anything. Anything-anything means I am not bound by mundane concerns like weather, transportation, money, desired companions being alive or non-fictional, that sort of thing. Today, my plan did not take up a lot of space on the page: stay home and red books. Maybe nap. So I did. Or, rather, I am.

The weather we actually got is a little different than what I expected. Current temperature as of this writing is still eighty-six, but we have a light rain, which means cloud cover, so sun is not an issue. It doesn’t feel that hot. The house is quiet. Real Life Romance Hero and Housemate are both off at work, and I could be. (Am, because I’m writing this? Am, because filling the well is part of the process? Am, because the Skype conference I had with Melva yesterday about Beach Ball is still fresh in my mind, and the wheels are turning, even if that’s not my main concern for the day?) There is still a lot of day left in front of me, still time before Housemate returns home, yet more time before RLRH returns home, and Skye is, as always, respectful of my clickety-clack on the glowy box.

Last night, everybody was home. Last night, the weather was sticky hot and icky humid. Last night, I had one shot at a Skype conference with Melva before she headed off for a family vacation, where she will, no doubt, recline on sparkling white beaches with Mr. Melva, for more than a week. The only private place to have said conference would be in my office, which would, if the door were closed, qualify as an oven. Housemate kindly clambered atop the kitchen stool and activated the ceiling fan, and, once it had been going for a while, made the room rather…inhabitable. This is kind of a new thing. I could get used to that. Melva and I made plans for the next few scenes of the Beach Ball, and I spent the rest of the evening chatting with another writer friend, and poking another project with a figurative stick. I would have stayed longer, and likely picked up a second wind, but I was about to go facedown on the keyboard, and did not have the mental faculties to read, let alone write. Hence, today.

I still count today as a productive day. I have napped (not intentionally; it kind of happened, but I figure I needed it) and opening my laptop to write this entry is the first time I’ve touched the machine (apart from carrying it from office to living room – nearly a year into owning this lovely pink piece of technology, and I am still amazed at how light she is) all day. Apart from checking a couple of things on my phone, I’ve been unplugged. Stuck my nose in a book, a paper one, read purely for pleasure, no writing about it needed. I haven’t played any music or gone anywhere near Netflix or YouTube or any of that.

Instead, I’ve read. I’ve spent time with RLRH. Took time to have lunch and do nothing but have lunch while having lunch. Played with Skye. Napped. Considered what only-for-pleasure book I will read next, after I have finished this one (and I may finish it during this calendar day, too, or maybe tomorrow) and when I might want to visit the library next, and harvest a fresh crop. Rolled my current writing projects around in my head, in the background this time, instead of the foreground, made a few mental notes that will translate to paper notes in a bit. For now, I want them to marinate.

I am surprised that I don’t feel guilty. There are no Hypercritical Gremlin voices calling me a slacker, while they jump up and down and turn a redder shade of purple, their fuzz standing out on end (it does that when they are ruffled; the are usually ruffled) and clench their fists. Instead, I feel…peaceful. Beyond the box fan in the window, I hear light rain, and car tires on pavement, one of my top three favorite sounds of ever. The fan blows cool air over my bare legs. I am debating getting up to refill my travel mug with cold seltzer. Maybe once I post. Maybe after I read another chapter. Maybe after another nap. Maybe if I nip into this document, for only a moment, to jot one thing down.

 

Under the Influence

annabowling 2 Comments

No, not that kind of under the influence, and yes, that is a vintage (recent vintage)  workspace picture for today’s entry because A) burning daylight here, and B) it’s pretty. I like the contrast of the retro robot and the Paris travel mug, and the mere thought of carrying yet another owed blog post (I will get that long-ago Wednesday post redeemed at some point, I promise) makes me shudder, plus I have had an occupational hazard of typing with wet nails, meaning I have to do it all over again, polish-wise, so here we are.

Last week, I got tagged by the equally fabulous Jodi Coburn and Kari W. Cole for the prompt to list fifteen writers who have influenced me. For the curious, here it is:

Bertrice Small – historical romance
Valerie Sherwood/Jeanne Hines -historical romance and gothic romance
Aola Vandergriff/Kitt Brown – historical romance and gothic romance
Nick Hornby -general fiction/lad lit/screenplays
Angela Hunt – inspirational fiction and nonfiction/historical fiction/women’s fiction  David Levithan – Young Adult fiction and poetry
Rainbow Rowell -Young Adult and adult fiction
Jennifer Roberson -fantasy with romantic elements, historical fiction with romantic elements and historical romance
Erma Bombeck  – humor, memoir
Billy Joel  -singer/songwriter
Mary Chapin Carpenter – singer/songwriter
Ben Folds  – singer/songwriter
Marsha Canham – historical romance
Barbara Samuel/Barbara O’Neal/Lark O’Neal/Ruth Wind -historical, contemporary and category romance, women’s fiction, New Adult romance, nonfiction
Anita Mills – historical romance and traditional Regency romance

A diverse bunch, and I don’t consider the additions of Joel, Folds and Carpenter as cheating, because some of their songs are amazing stories in their own right. Billy Joel’s “Scenes From an Italian Restaurant,” Ben Folds’ “Brick,” and Mary Chapin Carpenter’s “Goodbye Again” (which is on my playlist for Her Last First Kiss, oh so very much) definitely count; even the first few notes of any of those, before the lyrics start, are enough to engage my emotions, and I’m going to need a minute after it’s over because they give me feelings…which is exactly what an emotional story, musical or not, is meant to do.

What they all have in common for me is a strong emotional impact, across genres, formats and decades-of-origin. All of them have had a strong influence on why and how I do what I do. The moment I cracked the cover of The Kadin, by Bertrice Small, which I’d stolen from my mother’s nightstand, and first inhaled the opening pages, I knew I had found what I wanted to read and write for the rest of my life. I first heard “Brick,” by Ben Folds, in the passenger seat of BFF’s car, when the clock on her dash slid over to 6AM on December 26th, and the mournful first line, “6AM, day after Christmas,” chilled my blood, and became part of me.

That’s how it works with an influential book, song, piece of art, etc. We can appreciate it for what it is, in its original state, and most of us would probably fight those who suggest  changing it, but then something else happens – it meets us, and new life begins. We aren’t the same after we’ve experienced the original work, and, for those of us who also work in creative fields, neither is what we produce. We’ve been changed. We can’t go back to the way we were before, whether we want to or not, because now we know. Everything we’ve known and seen and done and hoped and feared and imagined and wondered combines with this thing we’ve never encountered before, and something new now exists.

Under the big brass bed in my parents’ guest room, with that purloined historical romance, in that front seat of BFF’s car as the saddest music of ever started in the predawn hour, I got that YES. That THIS. That mixture of discovery and recognition. THIS is mine. THIS is part of me. THIS is my fuel for the journey. THIS is what I need to get to the next level. I want more of THIS.

Fifteen is a pretty short list, and that’s okay. The instructions were to take the fifteen off the top of my head and I tried, but, for me, that isn’t where my favorites live. They’re not in my head. They’re in my heart, in my writerblood, combining with each other to make wholly new what-ifs and if-onlys while I’m off doing other things, waiting patiently for me in quiet moments, or chasing after me, calling my name, because no, they will not wait. It does have to be now, and the world is going to have to deal.

 

Influences of Late

annabowling 2 Comments

The last couple of days, I’ve been bingeing. Monday, I stumbled across Grace Burrowes’s FAQ section, which led to glomming on her blog, a couple of years’ worth of entries, full disclosure.  I haven’t read any of her novels -yet- but I know I have some in my TBR bookshelf, some waiting in my Kindle, and they take up a significant amount of the B shelf in the romance section at my local library branch. I started with the About Writing section of the FAQ page, and fell immediately in love, which may be a good indicator it’s time to dive into the actual books. Thankfully, there’s a suggested reading order on the author’s website, because there are a heck of a lot of t hem.

Tuesday, I investigated the Bad Girlz Write blog, whose members include the fabulous Jeannette Grey, a CRRWA chapter sister, and Heather McGovern, whose workshop on the big black moment I have  heard-but-not-actually-seen, because the day she presented at CRRWA was also the day my former pair of spectacles died, and my valiant attempt to hold them together with electrical tape and a binder clip A) did not work, and B) hurt, because electrical tape, when folded, has sharp, pointy corners, as well as C) made me dizzy and gave me a headache. I took notes anyway, but will not vouch for the legibility of same. Here, as well, I hit the back button to read blog entry after blog entry about wandering and, heck, the entire section on writer life in one go. There may or may not have been actual tears in either of the above.

There sure as anything have been a lot of tears in my other binge, Parenthood. Not the life state. The TV show. Yes, I do live under a rock, and no, I do not know how I somehow managed to never ever see a single episode of this until Netflix, but I needed a show to binge and Netflix said I might like it, because Netflix knows me, and yessssssssssss. Oh so very much yes. Only a few episodes into the first season, I had to check to make sure my OTPs (from the adult generation, that is; everybody shush on the teens, because I want to experience it myself) were going to be endgame (they were) before I could allow myself to get as deeply attached as I am wont to do in these situations.

All three of these binges brought that same reaction in my writerheart: YES. This. This is what I want to do. This is what I’m shooting for when I write. This connection. This emotional impact. This need to stop everything I’m doing and check to see if Crosby and Jasmine are going to be all right, because if they aren’t, there is no good left in the world. Also Joel and Julia. I already know a couple of things about the finale, and I am fine knowing them, but the rest, I want to discover as I go. I want to take all of this in and use it as food to fuel my own work. The tightly-knit family, made of people who aren’t perfect, who do get mad and lose their tempers and yell at little kids and shove their elders and say horrible things and lose every last shred of hope, and yet don’t give up because that’s not what they do; I love that stuff.

In the midst of all this, I noticed one interesting thing. The more I binged, the fainter and farther away the voices -and influences- of the Hypercritical Gremlins became.  Maybe Ms. Burrowes, the Bad Girlz and the Bravermans  are taking turns helping to barricade the Gremlins’ closet. Shutting out the “shoulds” is one thing, and a good thing, but there has to be something to move  into the old “should” place, or they’re only going to come back, with more “shoulds” and more Gremlins, and that only leads to paralysis and anxiety and literally ugly crying in the middle of a critique group (yes, that actually happened, and yes, in public, and yes, to me) and miscarried manuscripts and…you get the picture. But replace the “shoulds” and the forcing and the gnashing of teeth with the things that elicit that YES in every fiber of my writerheart? That brings back the joy, lifts the weight and, well, of course I can do this; it’s as natural as breathing, and I’ve been doing that for a few decades now, right? Right.

What could go wrong? Well, plenty. That’s part of life, but the encouraging part, thanks to reading accounts of others navigating the often treacherous writing waters, is that I’m not alone. I’ve done this before. I’ll do it again, and I have no shortage of fuel for the journey.

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Delicate Balance Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. It is also a domestic tornado day, so I may have to write some of my blog now and some of it later. If I post later than usual today, that is why. Also, this is a really nice sunbeam, where I am sitting.

First of all, in case you missed it, Anty talked about medieval romance novels on Buried Under Romance this Saturday. Do you like medieval romance novels? Why or why not? Anty is very interested in this topic, and not only because she has a medieval romance gathering du…um, I mean in her portfolio.  She likes to read them, as well, so is always on the lookout for recommendations. The blog post is here and it looks like this:

BURIMAGE

Saturday was a very big day for Anty, as she also got to recap last week’s episode of Outlander. Watching this show and writing the recap gave Anty a big boost, because they reminded her why she writes her particular brand of historical romance. That recap is here and it looks like this:

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In case you have not read any of Anty’s books and are wondering what kinds of stories she writes, there is an easy way to get a small peek. Anty (and I) currently has (have) four hundred and forty-nine followers. Anty would like to have four hundred and fifty. (She would actually like more than that, but she has to hit that number before she goes over it, so she wants that number first. ) If she (we) get one more, then Anty will post a piece of flash fiction here on the blog.

For the rest of this entry, I am going to paw it, because it is one of those days.  We are trying a different kind of cat treat this week, and by “we,” I mean me, because I have not seen the humans eat any of it. I think they know something. Probably that I am a kitty and they are not. Anty assures me that my regular treat will be back in a couple of days, and I can last that long. I will give you a secret: the different treat is not bad, and I am still eating it. Anty put a little bit of my regular treat into it, so that it would not be completely strange to me. I appreciate that.

This is not that different from writing. Even when a writer, like Anty, likes to try a few different things in their writing, there is usually something that is the same, so loyal readers will recognize that this is the same writer, and the experience is not completely strange. So far, Anty has written stories set in Colonial New York, turn of the twentieth century England and Italy, sixteenth century Cornwall, and both the Isle of Man and Charles II’s Court in Exile in the Netherlands at the end of the English Civil War. She has written a medieval novella, which is currently looking for a home, and Her Last First Kiss is set in Georgian England. The story she and Anty Melva are writing together is set in the modern day, but is historical romance adjacent, so Anty is not lost wandering in unfamiliar territory. (Anty is not all that comfortable writing completely in the modern age.)

When Anty and Anty Melva first began blowing up the Beach Ball, to use their term, they both wanted to make sure that each of them had one foot in familiar territory, as well as exploring new ground. Anty Melva is most comfortable writing contemporary, and Anty is fully aware she was hardwired for historical romance right out of the box. Anty loves a grand sweep within her historical romance, and Anty Melva likes a touch of suspense. Finding the right balance between the preferences and/or natural bents of two different writers sometimes takes a few tries to find the right ratio, but, so far, Anty and Anty Melva seem to be doing all right. That is the same as how putting a little of my regular treat into the new treat. It is nice to try something a little different once in a while (that is how I found out I like mushy beef cat food; now, I get that on special occasions, and my regular food every day.)

Finding new flavors to put into her writing is something Anty likes to do every so often. She doesn’t always know she is looking for a new flavor, but when she finds one that works for her, she likes to dive into it and experience as much as she can. She had a taste of that this past week, when she watched a lot of Outlander, and started in on a new-to-her Jo Beverley novel, in honor of Miss Jo’s passing. Miss Jo wrote mostly Georgian and Regency novels (Anty has read most, if not all of the Georgians, and some of the Regencies) but also wrote four medieval romances, and she loves Miss Jo’s work, but has never read any of Miss Jo’s medieval romances before, so that is something new, within something familiar. That is something Anty likes to keep in mind when she is writing, as well. It is a delicate balance, a challenge for sure, but also part of the fun.

That is also about it for this week. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

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Until next week…

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

 

 

 

Grumpy Writer Blather

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Blabbity blabbity blab blab, hit keys, English words, hate it when Wednesday’s posts get bumped to Thursday. Do not remember which week I still owe a Wednesday post from, but I remember that I do. I’m trying something new today, blocking time out in one hour segments, because I am the queen of overthinking. (Seriously, I am. I was once in an NECRWA meeting, and the instructor  had broken us into small groups to work on my writing goals. I will not go into my entire dither here, but cut to the chase, where I stopped myself, and asked the rest of the group, “or am I overthinking?” They, all at once, answered with “Oh, God, yes!” So, yeah. That’s pretty much me.)

I hate going into even a blog entry without a plan. Hate, hate, hate, hate, hate it. I’d say I have nothing for this entry, but that’s not true. I always have something. I hate it that Jo Beverley died. When I think of her work, I think first of her RWA workshop on flying into the mist, and her useful lists of forms of address, as well as how long a horse, horse and carriage, team of horses, etc, can travel in a day. I think of her posts on Word Wenches and articles on romance writing, her Facebook posts and the discussion of the  merits of standalone romances in the age of series, series everywhere.

It’s only after that, that I think of her actual books. Not sure what that means. I’ve read most of the Malloren world books, and only the first of the Rogues. I’ve read a few of the reissued Signet trads, and a plethora of novella entries. Right now, I’m reading Lord of My Heart, her first medieval. Not very far into it, but it’s always an interesting experience, reading a book by a favorite author and knowing there won’t be any more. Granted, I have rather a lot of Beverley still to read, but whatever there was is now whatever there will be, and I am not okay with that. I am going to miss having her in the world, the books, the blog posts, and, even though our only person to person contact had been short exchanges on the Word Wenches blog or Facebook, never personal, it’s like there is now a part of me that isn’t there anymore, and I’m still dealing with the jagged edges left from other broken-off parts, so it’s an adjustment.

I’ll grump for a while, fuss around in my office for a while, and I’ll write. There’s a bullet point draft that needs writing, because, once that’s done, I get to the smoothing out and rewriting, which I sometimes think I like better than coming up with the initial raw material. This may actually succeed in distracting me from the fact that summer, my least favorite season, will be upon us after this weekend. Bleh. Yeah, I’m grumpy. Grumps like this are best dealt with by acknowledging they exist, and letting the grump do its thing, because it does have a job to do. Exactly what that job might be, I’m not sure, but I trust that it’s leading me in the right direction.

Not quite at the magic seven hundred, so I will keep on going until I’m there.  Blabber has a job to do, same as grump does, and the best thing I can do is keep out of its way and let it do its thing, dump the entire contents of my noggin onto the real or virtual page and then, maybe, see about mushing it all into some sense of order. There’s usually something of value, even in the biggest mess, and I do feel like a big mess today. That won’t last. I’ll work through it, but it is where I am right now, and it has a part to play in the rest of the day. The fact that I don’t know what part that is, exactly, bothers me, but getting this entry checked off my list will help me feel more like the writing badass that I am.

I get antsy when I don’t get enough writing time, and by that, I mean specifically fiction. It’s like the characters and stories bottleneck in my brain and batter at the inside of my skull. Really best, in that case, that I let them out so they, too, can do their thing. Which, apparently, is at least partly to get me to the magic seven hundred, so that will be it for this entry, my liebchens. Off to party with my imaginary friends.
 

 

 

 

Playing Hooky (Well, Sort Of)

annabowling 4 Comments

Today, I played hooky. Well, sort of played hooky. I’m writing this entry, after all, and after I’m done, I kind of sort of want to drop in on Hero and Heroine for a little bit. You know, to see how they’re doing, and all. Make sure they don’t feel too neglected after the weekend, that sort of thing. Touch base. Set up for tomorrow.

I didn’t start out intending to shirk responsibility. I got up early, had breakfast with Housemate, and tackled some email before lugging a load of laundry to the Laundromat, which is where the whole hooky thing started. There’s reading I should be doing (aha, there’s that sneaky should) for pending posts on other blogs, and there’s writing I owe, and good gravy, is there work to be done on both Her Last First Kiss and the Beach Ball, but I’m also feeling rather crispy crittered, as Real Life Romance Hero would put it. The bits of conference workshops on recovering the joy of reading and writing pounded at the inside of my skull, and so, with a reckless abandon, I called up one of the books on my phone. Not the eARC I should be reading, but Jezebel’s Blues, by Barbara Samuel, a classic contemporary romance I’ve been wanting to read for years, because A) it’s set in her Gideon, Texas world that I first discovered in The Sleeping Night, a twentieth-century historical romance/women’s fiction with a contemporary frame, and B) I am twirling-around-in-circles-in-fields-of-daisies in love with both her use of language and skill in finding the intimate emotion of the story. In short, I needed it. Needed to get out of my head and into my heart, because, you know, romance writing and all.

So, I started reading . The voice and the story washed over me like the river whose flood brings Eric and Celia together in Jezebel’s Blues. Oh, yes. This is why I love romance. This is why I write. This is what feels like the most natural thing in the world. This is what I want and need to be doing when I sit down to work. The dryer cycle ended before I even knew, and I closed the reading app with great reluctance. Still, the story simmered.

This was Real Life Romance Hero’s day off, and, crispy crittered as he was himself (both Mother’s Day weekend and graduation weekend are tough on the restaurant business) he asked if I’d like to have lunch at a local pub we’ve been meaning to get back to for long enough that, when we were seated, they had a whole new menu. We had this:

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I had a Diet Coke, he had a Guinness, we spent some time focusing on each other. Talked about how we wanted to address the whole desktop situation, since the original plan fell through, and the laptop is feeling the strain. Plus, I miss my Sims, and we’d both like to take a shot at Fallout 4 and Skyrim. I throw out the idea that maybe we could just hang together after lunch, watch a little TV at home, and then I can come back fresh at this whole writing thing tomorrow. We debated taking a walk through the park, for baby waterfowl watching, but nixed that, due to the strong wind chill. It’s May, and we refuse to be cold in May. So, home, Kitchen Nightmares, and…here I am.

With permission to kick off and do nothing, I reached for the laptop to fill some pages, not because I had it on the schedule, not because I should, but because that’s what I  want to do. No pressure, just the fun of putting my imaginary friends through the wringer, because I know it’s going to be worth it in the end. For them, and for me. I didn’t feel deprived. I didn’t feel distracted. I didn’t feel dry, or as though I had to drag individual words out of nowhere. I felt…relaxed. Natural. In touch with my story brain. This day of giving myself some space and taking in what I want to put out may not have been that wasteful after all. Maybe I need to do this more often.