reading

Typing With Wet Claws: Reading Room Edition

annabowling Leave a comment

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday.

As purr (just kidding there; I do not actually purr. That does not mean I am not happy, it only means I do not purr. I chirp when I am happy. I chirp a lot.) our agreement, I must start this entry with a link to Anty’s most recent Saturday Discussion post at Buried Under Romance. This one asks what’s in  your To Be Read pile. Here is a hint: Anty’s is BIG. She does not have a pile, she has shelves. Also her e-reading devices. That post is here and it looks like this:

BURIMAGE

It also ties in very nicely with what I want to talk about this week, and that is reading. I know what you are thinking; kitties are probably not big readers, but we do like to be near humans who are reading, so Anty’s reading experience does directly affect me. Now that Anty has had new glasses for almost an entire week, she sees a lot of things differently. It is easier to see the computer keyboard and screen, as well as write in notebooks. She can also see paper books and her e-reading devices more clearly, which brings another matter into focus. Pun intended.

Now that Anty can read without jumping through hoops (not literally, but she probably could if she wanted to; she’s pretty determined) she can also see how many books she has yet to read (there are a lot of them) and, thanks to her love of planners and calendars, what does not look like a lot of time to read them. This may require some creativity. I am willing to do my share, which means sitting very very very close to her, and being very very very quiet. I can also remind her when it is the right time to take breaks to feed and/or pet me. The people vet did not tell Anty anything about taking breaks from reading paper books, but they did say that she should look away from the screen at ten minute intervals. I think she should look at me. That will be very restful.

One of the workshops Anty attended at the conference told her that it is important to feed her creative well, and reading is a part of that. It (or maybe a different workshop; the do not have a kitty track at these things, so I did not go, and cannot be sure) also said that treating writing like a respite from the chaos of daily life (and domestic torandoes, though I do not think the instructor used that term, because it is Anty’s term, and they had not met before.) I think the same thing applies to reading. This means that Anty has some retraining of her brain to do, to treat reading as a pleasure again, instead of a task.

Sometimes, reading is work, if she is reading a book to write about it. That does not mean that it is not still fun to read, but that the reading needs to be done within a certain time, and she is also thinking about what she is going to write while she is reading. That is a different thing than flopping in her chair, bed, or tub, to read a story merely because she wants to read it. She needs to make time to do that, and to make that time a priority. That is one of the reasons why she wants to get the good office chair out of the storage unit and bring it home.

She will also need to bring a small desk home, from that same unit, for the new desktop, and the chair is partly for that. The other part, though, is so that she can use the office space for reading. That would be different, rather than trying to squeeze in a few minutes here and a few minutes there. The instructor at the workshop talked about being in the story world while writing and reading (at least that is what I gather; this is all secondpaw, since I was not physically present) and how that refreshes the brain, away from everyday life. Anty does not use the word “escape,” because that would imply that she would be away from the non-story stuff permanently, so she says “respite” instead. A time away to refresh herself and then she can take on everything else.

Right now, she is still looking for the best way to fit reading into her day, and that may take a few tries, but that is okay. Looking for things is often the way we find them. What Anty and I both know for sure is that talking about what she is reading will be an impetus to read more, so that may mean more blogging. I will be here to help her out as much as I can, because that is one of the many duties of a mews. More time reading (unless it is out of the house) means more time with me, so I am very much in favor of that.

Anty says it is her turn with the computer for now, 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
(the kitty, not the book)

 

 

Respite

annabowling Leave a comment

I don’t feel like blogging today. I really don’t. What I want to do is nap. A nap would be lovely, under my duck blankey, in my comfy chair, a cup of tea at the ready, maybe the TV on, though I can’t think of what I’d want to watch, so maybe we can switch that to music. I don’t like silence-silence right now. I have a headache, my brain is full, and yet, it is also trained that this is writing time, so I’m  here, butt in chair and fingers on keyboard.

Breakfast with N was lovely as always, getting each other up to date on what we’re working on, how it’s going, and our shared irritation with movies we hate. After that, I took out one of my HLFK notebooks and worked on a scene that needs fleshing out. I walked home through the park, into a cold, gusting wind the entire time. That was not my favorite. Lunch, cat tending, and now, I’m here. Novella work happened last night, which sent me to bed in a productive mood, if later than I had hoped.

 

12928419_1163759640330732_523564799515608785_n

Skye says less dithering, more blogging.

 

Okay, okay, cat goading always works. I can get something out of this. I’m already over two hundred words, which is a pretty decent inroad. This is one of those days when I’m tempted to let the blogging slip for another day, but then there would be the blogging equivalent of a multicar pileup. Tomorrow is Wednesday’s post, and #1linewed, then Thursday, I write my Buried Under Romance post. Friday has Skye’s post, and it’s the Sleepy Hollow season finale, which I will be recapping. Domestic tornadoes took yesterday, and that leaves today, so I’m here.

So,  what am  I talking about? I have no idea. I’m sure something will happen, and days like this are part of the normal scheme of things. I’m in a stinky mood at the moment, but I know it will pass. Once I get this entry crossed off my list, then I’ve earned some downtime, which will very likely include reading, or maybe that nap. My brain keeps going back to that nap thing, which I am taking as a sign. Soon, brain. Soon. Blog first.

 

2016-01-15 13.43.21_resized

care for a random mint picture?

Yesterday, my confidence took a hit. Something didn’t go the way I wanted it to go. That’s life sometimes. We get knocked off our metaphorical horse now and again; I don’t think anybody is immune to that. There are a few minutes of lying on our back in the dirt, blinking up at blue sky and white clouds,  and, well, dang. That wasn’t supposed to happen, but it did and now, the choice is, stay there, or get up.

I got up. Set the thing-I-didn’t-want aside and opened my novella notebook. A bullet point draft of the scene my collaborator and I had agreed I would tackle spilled out. The next scene that would be mine suggested itself in the end of this one, and a quick email to said collaborator got her thumbs up, so now I know where my next scene (she’ll write the one in between) for that story begins.

 

This morning, after N left to meet Mr. N, my brain still had some funk, but it also had the germ of the scene I needed to tackle for HLFK. Heroine has to encounter Other Character,, and I knew the when and the where, but not the how. Apart, that is, from making things as difficult as possible for her. The old chasing character up a tree and then throwing rocks at them school of thought. It’s a meeting she very much does not want, but she knows is possible, and she’d love nothing more than to slip out of the venue so it doesn’t have to happen. Which means that, not only can she not slip out, but there will be multiple eyes on her, so she can’t react the way she wants to react. A few pages of that, and my brain was still funky, but I had a loose outline of the scene, and that’s more than I started the day with, so I’ll take it.

I’ve always had a quibble with those who say fiction is an escape. I would rather say that it’s respite. Dive into reading or writing a good book, and the rest of the world will still be there, but there is one important difference. That’s us. We got a break from the everyday. We got to travel to a different time and place, walk around inside somebody else’s skin, lived another life, and, somehow, it’s made us better equipped to handle our own. I’m going to call that good.

Typing With Wet Claws: Reading Room Edition

annabowling 2 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Right now, Anty is focused on getting the other humans settled in their tracks for the day so that she can get on with hers, so it is a good thing I am the one who is blogging.

Anty has a lot of reading to do this week, and I mean a lot.  Here are only three of the books on her TBR shortlist. You have seen them before, if you read Anty’s entries and not only mine. She needs to get them read so that she can write about them, and have time for the next three that come after them.

 

untitled (5)

so it begins..

That is not all Anty has to read, because there are still other library books, for pleasure (that she does not have to write about, but probably will, because she is Anty) and she has chapters from Critique Partner Vicki that have been sitting in her inbox for long enough that she is ashamed. For one of them, she is really ashamed, but she is very happy Critique Partner Vicki is making such good progress toward The End. That is a very good thing.

 

Anty also  has to read her own work, because she somehow managed to delete a whole section of her Scrivener file. That is okay, because that section was one she had originally written in longhand, in her Big Daddy Precious notebook. Anty says longhand has saved  her um, writing, more than a few times. Plus, writing with a fountain pen helps her feel more connected to her historical characters. I would mention that using a dip pen would be even more accurate, but that might give her ideas.  I have heard the words, “pen cull” around here recently, so I do not know if bringing new pens, and even a new kind of pen, into the house is a very good idea. We have seen what happens when Anty is trusted with bottles of ink. In case you missed it, this is what happens:

 

She will probably get one anyway, because once she gets an idea in her head, it usually stays there. Also, they sell them at the art store sometimes, and we are talking about the human who has been known to burn wine and fireplace scented candles at the same time, to make sure she knows what that smells like when it is important to a scene. Uh oh. I think I may have inadvertently given her an idea.

Living with a writer human has its occupational hazards. One would think that a writer human would be reading all the time that they are not writing. Anty says she only wishes it were so. Even with books on  her e-reader, tablet, phone and laptop, not to mention paper books from the library, Heroes and Heartbreakers, bookstores, and rereads and new reads of books she already owns, there are still other things to be done to help keep the household running, and, sometimes, reading gets pushed to the periphery. (Anty is very proud that I am a kitty who knows how to properly use words like “periphery.” That is one of the perks of being an author’s kitty.)

Besides reading novels and manuscripts, Anty also has to read for research. Here is where I can give you an interesting piece of trivia, in case it ever comes up: Anty does not use research books for the majority of her research. That is not how her brain works. Her favorite method is to talk to experts and pick their brains, and if she can get into a living history museum that is pertinent to her needs, that is the best. Yes, she will play along with the interpreters, and have a persona on hand. Mama knows that, when they find themselves in a living history museum together, Mama is Anty’s um, employee. Mama is fine with that, which is a good thing, but I think Anty would probably do it anyway, because Anty loves living in other times for a little while. (She likes living in our time, for things like the Internet, central heating/cooling and gummi bears.)

Sometimes, these worlds blur. Earlier this week, when Anty was on her way back from her meeting with N, she walked through the park, and found herself caught in the middle. Since Hero in Her Last First Kiss is an artist, Anty needed to know more about what it was like to be an artist in the late eighteenth century. She would get bored reading a big nonfiction book, and does not know any experts in that area right now, so she hit the Internet, to look up artists who actually lived then. Well. On her walk home, and on her next few walks through, it all looked like a Gainsborough painting. The trees, the water, the light, the colors, all of it.

Even when she saw a gentleman sitting on the grass by the lake, her  mind translated things back a few centuries. The pose would have been right at home in an eighteenth century portrait, the expression, and the power paunch was hot stuff back then. (Anty says do not worry, Hero does not have a power paunch.) All Anty’s brain had to do was translate the modern suit to a period-appropriate one, and imagine a powdered wig on the gentleman’s head. She had to remind herself to keep walking and not stare, because nonwriters (and to be fair, there is no way to know if said gentleman fit into that category or not; writers can be anywhere) usually do not understand that sort of thing. That also reminded Anty of an interesting tidbit that will be useful in Hero doing his job; portrait painters often bought premade backgrounds with figures already in them – except for the faces. Those, they had to put in themselves. I suppose that saved a lot of time, when they had to get portraits made quickly, because they did not  have cameras back then.

Anty says I have been very blabbery  and she needs the computer back, 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
(the kitty, not the book)

Signs of (Writing) Life

annabowling Leave a comment

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

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

12188880_1145003152206381_2292686543466423663_n

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

 

 

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

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

untitled (5)

I’m working, I promise

 

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

 

untitled (4)
Reading that is not related to any posts (as far as I know) also needs to happen, because that also fits under the umbrella of “study.” I’m very curious about Kerrigan Byrne’s The Highwayman, and have heard wonderful things about it, so can’t wait to start that. Elizabeth Hoyt’s latest Maiden Lane novel is an auto-read, so that’s going to happen, especially since it fits with my immersion in all things Georgian. I’m still determined to get back on the Bertrice Small horse (and the fact that the book I picked, The Border Lord’s Bride, is number two in its series means I will have to go back and read book one, A Dangerous Love, because that’s how I roll) and I’m still devouring  realistic YA like a starving hyena. Seeing notice of an upcoming David Levithan release in the current issue of Romantic Times Book Reviews magazine made me literally squeal (Skye is used to this kind of thing) when I read it in the upcoming releases section.

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

Flowing Into the Next

annabowling Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

12801283_1140160539357309_6012874925866468332_n

 

Midweek Rambles

annabowling Leave a comment

Rainy Wednesday here, and the fact that I’m only now getting to the first blog entry of the week should be an indicator of how things have been going. The new addition to my workspace is Hedwig, (thanks, Kara!) who has shot up to mascot status in short order. Lift his head off, and he’s a flash drive. He will soon be filled with novel stuffs.

No idea what I want to write about here, so I’m going to wing it. One of the most vivid rainy day memories I have carried for a long time reaches all the way back to fifth grade. We’d recently moved from Bedford Village to Pound Ridge, and I had a playdate with Elizabeth A, to keep us both occupied and our mothers sane for the rain-soaked afternoon. I remember I had a corduroy pantsuit (it was the seventies; don’t judge me, and yes, my mom picked out my outfit) that day, red with a flower print all over it. The legs were too long, so the hems of the trousers (I preferred skirts even back then, but mom said, sooo…)were damp the rest of the day.

We spent the afternoon in Elizabeth’s room. I remember Barbies and some imaginative play, some discussion of the new TV show we both liked, Wonder Woman, probably my first fandom, though I didn’t know what fandom was at the time. Elizabeth had a Chow dog, who had particular tastes in what interactions he would allow with what humans, but he always liked me. I don’t remember his name, or the name of Elizabeth’s older brother. I don’t remember many particulars of that day, but I remember the day itself, and the memory is a good one. Elizabeth A, wherever you are, I hope you do, too.

On this rainy day, years later, there’s imaginative play still. Now, I call it writing, and it’s work as much as it is play, which suits me fine. No red corduroy pantsuit, thankfully, and I’m writing this from my favorite coffee house instead of a friend’s bedroom, but the day has some of the same feel to it. Not that I know exactly what the connection is, but some things become a part of us, and come to the fore when they will.

Today is also the first anniversary of the passing of Bertrice Small, still a favorite author and my entrée into the world of historical romance. I’d wanted, as many Small fans, to dive into some rereading when we got the sad news, and, at the moment, I’d tried, but I couldn’t make the connection. Not a good feeling, but, at times, the best thing we can do is let the feelings do their jobs. I don’t know when I got it in my head that I would intentionally step back from reading an author whose work had been that important to me, or when the idea arose that I would resume on the first anniversary of her passing. Maybe it’s a form of literary mourning? I’m not going to question that one.

Once I knew I wanted to resume on a certain date, everything fit. I would pick up one of her books on that date, and I would read it, but which one? With forty-nine titles from which to choose (well, less than that, as the Lara books are in storage, and I don’t own the Channel titles) the options were too many. N’s advice, “make a decision,” came to me then, and I did. I decided I wouldn’t decide. I turned to my Lionesses at my Facebook group, The Lion and Thistle, and placed my choice in their capable hands.

1917649_1136272486412781_6670506870823280307_n

this is the one

Some of the suggestions, I’d expected. Skye O’Malley (the book, not the kitty) is my favorite, and The Kadin was the first historical romance I ever read.  I know those books, can quote them in places, so re-reading them would be as much remembering as experiencing the story. The other choices offered, Deceived, and The Border Lord’s Bride, I haven’t read as much. Since my copy of Deceived seems to have gone walkabout (will be reaching out to the library system and/or used bookstores soon) my choice became clear. I hadn’t remembered, until I plucked my copy from my special Small bookcase, that this was the second story in the Border Chronicles, not the first, but since it’s an extremely loose connection, I’m letting that go. I can read the prior title, A Dangerous Love, later, if I want. I did put my choice in others’ hands, after all.

 

As with that long-ago rainy afternoon, I remember the book more in general than in specific, and it’s a different experience. The last time I read this book, it was 2007.  A few things have happened since then. My critical mind is along for the ride, and has some issues with tell-y passages and instances of passive voice, but the voice itself, that’s as familiar as I remember, a welcome back to the things that drew me to historical romance in the first place. It’s also made me schedule reading time in my day, something I’d wanted to do, but put off actually doing, but if I want to make time to read all that I want and need to read, there has to be time where that’s all that I’m doing. This is different from pleasure-only reading; it’s also research.

20160224_125312_resized

library haul; must organize

 

 

In a way, that’s my equivalent of the art student camped out in front of the master’s painting, sketchbook in hand or canvas on easel. What did the master do? How did they do it? That thing that was never recorded, what was it? Can I do it, too? What does it look like when I do their thing, my way? Reading time, writing time, headphones in, laptop on, paper and pen at the ready. Let’s do this.

Typing With Wet Claws: Story Brain Edition

annabowling Leave a comment

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Anty did not tell me what to write about today, so I am going to have to wing it, or, in my case, paw it. I do not have any wings, because I am a kitty; only paws. I use them for walking.  Only birdies have wings. Also bats, and some insects. Maybe also Pegasus (I do not know the plural form of that word, but it is a horsey with wings. I am not sure if they are real or fictional, but I do not want to find out by meeting one. They sound scary.)  I think Anty letting me say whatever I want today shows a great deal of trust. I will try to show her she did the right thing.

Most of this week can be divided into domestic tornado management and writing. Anty also found time to get to the library, along with Mama, and bring home a bunch of books. Eight of them, which is a lot, even though Anty says it is a reasonable amount. These are the books:

Anty picked them all. Mama did not find any books she especially wanted to read, but she wants to read some of the books Anty picked, when Anty is done reading them. So far, Anty is close to mostly through one. One. Anty needs more reading time. I would suggest that Anty try using some of the awake-in-the-middle-of-the-night time for reading, but the last time I did that, she looked at me like this:

ROBINDAGGERS - WIN_20150811_110539

That is not something I want to go through again, so that was the last time I will make that suggestion. Anty is doing laundry at least once tomorrow, so that is two hours of potential reading time right there. If it does not turn into writing time, that is. Which it might.  One important thing to know if you have a writer in your life is that pretty much any time can turn into writing time. That comes with the territory, and does not only happen when they are in front of a computer or have a notebook at hand (although Anty usually does have at least one notebook within reach.) Many writers, including my Anty, do not have an off switch. Sometimes, it would be useful if they did, but they do not. At least mine does not.

We do not have any pictures of the Anty Has Story Brain look, and that is probably a good thing. Mama and Uncle and I have learned to recognize it, though, and I think some of the humans who work at the coffee house. Twice, this week, Anty has had a coffee house human remind her that her tea is right in front of her and she can sit down now.  Some of them know it because they are writers, too, and give the gentle prompt as a matter of professional courtesy. The best way I can describe that look is sort of blank, staring off into some place that is not there.  Maybe I should say it is something non-writers cannot see, because merely because something happens inside a writer’s mind does not mean it is not real. Making things in their heads become real is a big part of writers’ jobs, so it is no surprise that it happens when it happens. Sometimes, often in the car, Mama will notice Anty is too quiet, and ask “are you writing?” Almost always, Anty says that she is. Once, Mama asked, “How are Hero and Heroine?” Anty laughed, because that was where her story brain had gone.

2016-01-15 14.35.56_resized

a very small portion of story brain

 

Anty says that, at least for her, story brain is a sign that she is on the right track, and the characters are doing their parts. It is like a movie in her head that plays itself and she has to get it all down. Maybe it is somewhat like recapping TV shows, except that there is no remote to pause things and she has to do it all in her head. I think the inside of Anty’s head is probably very messy, filled with pictures and sounds and bits of movies and snippets of songs, remembered smells and parts of ideas that started out as something else, but took on their own form after they swam around with all the other stuff for a while. I can imagine it is very easy to get lost in there at times, and that is why it takes Anty a little while to come back from it when she has to do things like go to the grocery store or figure out where Uncle’s sweater went.

Story brain is a lot better than lack-of-story-brain. Anty wrestled with that for a long while, and it was not pretty.  I am not sure that story brain is that much prettier, as her office looks like a tornado hit it. More books are coming out of boxes and going into her bookshelves, moving around so books she wants easiest access to, like the library haul, above, are the ones she can get to fastest, and books she never ever looks at can get ready to go to new homes. Right now, she needs books that will help  keep her moving forward in telling Hero and Heroine’s story, and those that don’t, need to go away. She says I can share pictures when she gets things neat again, but not right now.

Right now, Anty needs the computer back so that she can write more about Hero and Heroine, 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
(the kitty, not the book)

Backing Up and Moving Ahead

annabowling Leave a comment

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

 

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

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

20160111_100740-1_resized

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

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

12096457_1105577866148910_5999726958156898009_n

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

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

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

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

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

 

A Handful of Dreams and a Blogful of Opinions

annabowling Leave a comment

I’ve been reading a lot of older historical romances lately, mainly those first published in the 1990s. Many of these are standalone stories, in the truest sense of the word, not parts of any series, so anything can happen, to anybody, apart from the HEA we are guaranteed by the end of the book. The  hero’s charismatic best friend isn’t exempt from villain status, because no, we aren’t going to need him to be the hero of book two or there, because there is none. One hero, one heroine, one HEA, off into the sunset, done and done. That’s how my story brain naturally works, anyway, and I’d been craving the big, thick doorstoppers I used to devour (and still can, because keeper shelves and UBSs and e-books, yay publishing revolution) so I dove into this subgenre once more, with overwhelmingly positive results.

12118845_1053054018067962_7772132729402933453_n

One of my best (but not surprising) re-finds was Barbara Hazard. I’d re-devoured her Georgian historical, Call Back the Dream, and wanted to dive into the sequel (I know, I know, I was talking about standalones only a minute ago, but bear with me; this is going somewhere) immediately afterward. I thought I’d packed that in the same box with the original, but then it would have been in the same bookcase. It wasn’t. Instead, there was A Handful of Dreams, also excellent, and completely unrelated.

20160106_102511-1_resized

I didn’t remember too much about A Handful of Dreams, though I’d first read it when it was fairly new. I remembered the scene where child Sally catches a coin tossed to her by a British soldier on horseback, but didn’t remember if that soldier would turn out to be the hero or not. As I read on, I still wasn’t sure. I did remember, very clearly, the fictional Sally’s abusive first marriage, her return to her family of origin, and her placement as the companion of the daughter of a different soldier.

Let’s say that Sally and her employer’s daughter had different expectations of the relationship and leave it at that. I’m not sure if that might have been explored differently,  had the book been written today, and that’s something I will likely think about for some time. Sally’s employer decides it’s time for Sally to move on, and her situation, as it were, becomes a commodity.

A friend of the family, Harry, Lord Darlington, purchases the care of Sally, and his treatment of her didn’t -on either read- strike me as particularly heroic. He’s a cold father to his children from other relationships, including two marriages, even when Sally expresses her desire for the children to be part of the family. As a work of historical fiction, this works fine, and that’s how I read it this time around. There’s a friend of Harry’s, who also takes a liking to Sally, and there was a good portion of the book where I was thinking maybe I’d misremembered and he was the true hero.

Not going to give away spoilers, because there are two sorts of readers involved here; the ones that are going to track this book down o they can read it themselves, and those who will not, because old book, who cares, or they don’t read romance anyway. Either way, I finished this reread a couple of days ago, and, as much as I’d like to read another romance, my brain is stuck here. Lots of thinking.

Were I to publish this book today, I would class it as historical fiction rather than romance. Sally does find love, and that love is reciprocated. There’s even an acceptable heroic grovel on the part of the gentleman who fills that role, but, in the end, this is really her story and not theirs. I am okay with that. Romantic elements, yes, but this book is about Sally’s life, her struggle to find her place in the world, and the effect the cards she was dealt do have on what she can do.

Sally starts out Irish and poor, in the early nineteenth century. She’s also beautiful, exceptionally so, and that gets her noticed, not always for the right reasons. This is one of my favorite types of characters, where that beauty has its perils as well as its perks. There are those who don’t look below the surface, those who assume a certain set of facial features means a certain personality or mindset, when that couldn’t be farther from the case. Sally’s options are limited. She’s not educated, she doesn’t have a lot of power, but she is smart and she is strong, and she is a woman of her time. That’s important.

Some aspects felt  a little too neat to me, others a bit rushed, and. for a historical romance, there isn’t a lot of emphasis on the relationship that should be the center of the story. I’m not sure I would have chosen the same hero, were this my story to write, but it wasn’t. I’d love to talk to the author, but without contact information, that’s not likely, so some of these things are going to muddle around in my own mind for a while. Maybe some elements will transfer and transform in my own work, but for now, I’m still thinking

Reading, (non)Resolutions, and Hypercritical Gremlins

annabowling Leave a comment

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

 

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

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

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

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

Oh, hello,  Hypercritical Gremlins.

HI, ANNA! CRAPPY NEW YEAR!

That’s Happy New Year.

NOT FOR US.

Why am I not surprised about that?

IT’S WHAT WE DO.

To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?

TRADITIONAL NEW YEAR VISIT.

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

READING. YOU BROUGHT IT UP FIRST.

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

YOU STINK AT THAT, TOO.

Uh huh. Do you have any critiera about that?

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

:blushes: No.

HA HA! BUSTED!

Okay, look, we’re not going there.

MAYBE YOU’RE NOT.

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

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

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

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

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

BUT EVERYBODY ELSE LOVES SERIES, BECAUSE THEY ARE SERIES.

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

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

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

BECAUSE IT IS.

Interesting perspective. Can you tell me more about that?

WE’RE REALLY BUSY RIGHT NOW.

Doing what?

PICKING ON YOU.

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

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

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

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

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