romance

Post Labor Day Rambles and Georgian Unciorn Chow

annabowling Leave a comment

Monday’s post on Tuesday does not count as late if Monday was a holiday. Not sure if a holiday counts as such if it’s as disgustingly hot as this one was, but I got to spend Sunday with my good friend, Mary W, and her hubby :waves hi: so that definitely gets holiday points.

In preparation for the visit (and because it had long since fallen into ‘high time’ territory) I hauled a mostly unused bookcase into my office and busted my special keepers out of the storage box where they’d been since the big move and got them out on display.

Shelfie!

Shelfie!

Getting these old favorites out of mothballs and out where they can see them gave me a jolt of energy. This is why I read and write romance. If some of these books look well-read, it’s because they are, studied as much as read for pleasure. Those Valerie Sherwood books? Saved my bum in a pre-Revolutionary history final in college, where I needed to detail the contributions of three ethnic groups other than the English, that were essential to the survival of the colonies on an economic level. First two that came to mind were easy; indigenous and African, one group here already, and the other not here by choice, but both contributed much. Then my mind skidded to a halt. Sure, I’d studied, but could I remember any of that? Nope, what my brain wanted to  hang onto was that scene in Bold Breathless Love, where the heroine escapes her abusive husband by ice boat on the Hudson Riv…waaaaait a minute. Creepy abusive husband dude was Dutch, and so was the ice boat, and ice skating, and those were pretty darned useful, because otherwise, there is zero river commerce during the winter months, and then how are we going to get goods from producer to consumer, hm? Ice, ice, baby. Bonus points for those who know the legal name of the gentleman who popularized that phrase is Robert Van Winkle.

There’s a lot to be said for getting in touch with one’s bookish roots, and it’s a practice I highly recommend. Though I haven’t been reading a lot of current historical romances lately, merely seeing these books on shelves made my reader heart go pitter-pat. I want to reread that one and that one and that one, and ooh, that one. The array of settings and eras here dazzled me then, and it still does. 19th century Russia? English Civil War and Restoration? Georgian England? Colonial America? Yes, yes, yes and yes. This is a shelf full of unicorn chow, and I couldn’t be happier to have it out in the open again.

The book I’m holding in today’s picture is Call Back the Dream, by Barbara Hazard. It’s the first book I ever wrote a fan letter after reading, and I still remember being gobsmacked when Ms. Hazard actually sent back a personal reply. Not light reading, by any stretch of the imagination, and those brave enough to crack that gorgeous Elaine Duillo cover are going to need Kleenex and possibly counseling, because man oh man, the emotions here, and they are directly dependent on the historical world in which Camille and Alexander, the lovers depicted in said illustration live.

No rubbing of elbows with the movers and shakers of the time, but two star crossed lovers from different classes that society has decreed do not mix. Camille is the daughter of a vicar, Alexander the son of an earl, and those readers with some familiarity with the way things worked in the middle of the eighteenth century know this is not going to be an easy road. It’s not, and that’s what makes it a darned good story. Marrying other people? Well, duh. Secrets and lies? Um, yeah. Matters Need to Be Dealt With because those crazy kids and their radical ideas do not jibe with the Way Things Are Done. There’s breeding to consider, in both senses of the world, and the road to happily ever after takes Camille and Alexander fifteen freaking years to traverse. Yeah, baby.

Make no mistake, they make it to their mountaintop, but there are Ramifications, which Ms. Hazard further explores in the sequel, The Heart Remembers, which puts Camille and Alexander’s natural son, Jack, in the spotlight, after he finds out the way his family tree is really rooted, and he does not take it well. I’ll be rereading that one after I reread Call Back the Dream. I did write Ms. Hazard back and ask if there was going to  be a third book, to bring certain events full circle, and, though she allowed I was right about certain things, wasn’t sure if the book would be written. To my knowledge, it has not, and, believe Ms. Hazard is not currently writing, unless it is under a pseudonym. If so, I want to know what it is, because I will read those books.

These books get unicorn chow points because, double-digit years after first reading them, I remember, vividly, specific scenes. Camille’s first appearance, doing laundry on a hot and humid day, the books (Pamela, by Samuel Richardson) Alexander left for Camille to read in secret, The Fire. Those who have read this book know what I mean, and those who haven’t, you’re in for a treat.

That’s the kind of book I want to produce, so that’s the kind of book I need to make sure I’m taking in, as often as possible. Reading these books reminds me why I’m doing what I’m doing, and makes me want to do everything I can to earn my own books a space on that shelf. Ms. Hazard, wherever you are, I’m leaving a light on for you and setting a place at the table.

As the Unicorn Rambles

annabowling 4 Comments

All right, my liebchens, it’s Wednesday, I’ve already done #1lineWed on Twitter, I have a chat with my fabulous critique partner, Vicki, at two, writing must be done, articles pitched, so you’re getting this ramble because that’s how I roll.

Thanks to friend and reader Mary W, I got the idea to talk about some of the books I’ve read, recently or otherwise, that do suit my tastes. Much more fun to enthuse over something I love than whine about trying to find more of it. Here’s the thing about that; some of the time, it finds us, so all that looking can, in those cases, be the same as smashing our heads against a brick wall in hopes of getting through it, when, if we’d kept on walking a few more paces, we could have found the door, garden gate, etc.

This was going to be a video post, but the cold sore that showed up overnight is not terribly photogenic, so you’re getting this instead. All righty, disclaimer aside, let’s jump into this.

i1035 FW1.1

Yeah, yeah, big surprise, but hey, reissue cover, for variety’s sake

Skye O’Malley, by Bertrice Small
(the book, not the kitty)

This is my all time favorite historical romance novel, big, bodacious, sprawling over years and continents, with one kickass heroine who doesn’t let boys boss her around. Doesn’t let Queen Elizabeth I boss her around either, for that matter.  An instance of amnesia actually working in fiction, lots of grit and adventure, from sixteenth century Ireland, England, Algiers and the high seas, to the political machinations of a woman making her way in a man’s world on her own terms, this gets my story blood pumping.

As for romance, Skye has more than one love in this book, and I am okay with that. Niall, her first love, and the hero of the book, is my favorite, and that final scene where the two of them and their friends literally do ride off into the sunset, well, that’s my all time favorite romance novel ending, ever. Yes, I can recite it from memory.  Much bigger in scope than is currently in vogue, and I miss that scope, this takes Skye from her birth to her HEA (for this book; eleven others follow, chronicling Skye’s family’s adventures) and set the bar or the larger than life heroines I prefer.

For those keeping track of that sort of thing, yes, this is a sexy book, but please don’t think that’s the whole point.  The character shine here, as people of their time, and if you don’t want to stand up and give Skye, Niall and company a fistpump at the end, well, I don’t know if we can be friends. (Okay, we probably can, but I would hold it against you. I am bribable with gummi bears, though, so you may still have a shot.)

Sword Dancer, by Jennifer Roberson

Oh good gravy, this book. I resisted reading it for ages (E, how long did I avoid this one?) because I’m not into a lot of fantasy, but, trust me, this really really is a romance.  Famed warrior Tiger can be matched by no man, but (fantasy readers, you know where I’m going here) that’s kind of moot because Del is no man. From the first time the two meet, in a desert cantina, the chemistry crackles between this Southron (sic) alpha male and Northron (sic) woman who is so very much his equal and opposite that following them through seven (so far) very thick books is not nearly enough. I also know the last line of this seies by heart. It was everything I …er, he dreamed when he slept at night, among the salset. :happy sigh:

My copies are in storage, but I have written about the series for Heroes and Heartbreakers, here.  Yes, there’s magic in this book, and it’s told in first person, from Tiger’s POV, but this gal found it very easy to slip inside his head. Tiger thinks he’s tough, and he is; he earns a living with his sword, fending off challengers, but the challenge he didn’t expect was to find a woman who can do what he does…and more. Del needs Tiger’s help to find and free her enslaved brother, This relationship has a lot going against it. They’re literally from two different worlds, and each gets a chance to see exactly what the other has had to overcome in their hometowns, not to mention some huge challenges destiny throws their way. I won’t give away their secrets here, but if you want a ride or die couple in your romantic fiction, Tiger and Del are it.  This really does read like a powerful historical romance set in a place we don’t know yet, so if you’re hesitant about fantasy, this is  good place to start. Ms. Roberson has also written some excellent historical romances, so, y’know, precedent has been set.

Eleanor and Park, by Rainbow Rowell

Not historical romance, this one, but, well, kind of, sort of, in its way. Set in the 1980s, we could call this a period piece, because the fabric of the time is essential to the romance and shapes it in a way that one would collapse without the other.  It’s standalone, too, which is one thing I sorely miss in today’s market (though I find more standalones in YA than historical romance; what’s with that?) and absolutely everything revolves around the love story.

Eleanor and Park, high school students, meet on a school bus. Eleanor is hard to overlook. She’s fat. She has big, curly, red hair. She dresses funny. Park doesn’t want the trouble, but when he sees how badly she’s getting picked on, he reluctantly lets her share his seat. Then he notices she’s reading his comic book over his shoulder. He holds the book open wider so she can see. Swoon, right? He gives her the book, and other books, makes her mix tapes, becomes the one pure and true and good thing in her life. Eleanor needs that, as her home life is a crazy free fall of chaos with her abusive stepfather and her gaggle of siblings who look to her more than their parents for stability. Park’s family has romance cred already, as his dad loved his mother enough to go back to Korea for her, and he knows what love looks, feels, and sounds like.  He knows he’s found it with Eleanor, and he’s willing to fight for her, literally and figuratively.

The course of teen love never does run smooth, even though both know this is the real thing, and both must make a heartrending choice when Eleanor’s home life escalates. I do count this as a happy ending, and I like to think I do know what those mysterious three words in the book’s ending are. I will fight those who disagree, because, yeah, that is the hill I want to die on when discussing this book. I’ve written about Park and my other favorite YA book boyfriends for Heroes and Heartbreakers here.

That’s all the time I have for today, so I shall leave you here and scarper off to Georgian England for a while. What books can get you squealing like an excited fangirl/boy? Can you tell anything these three books or their characters have in common? Know a good cold sore remedy? Drop a line in the comments and let me know.

Rambly Ramblings on Writing, Reading and Feeling Like a Unicorn

annabowling 2 Comments

“Trying to write about love is ultimately like trying to have a dictionary represent life. No matter how many words there are, there will never be enough.”
― David Levithan, The Lover’s Dictionary

Not sure what I want to talk about today, so you’re going to get a freeform ramble, and I am going to trust that I am going to make some sort of sense by the time I’m done. This has been not exactly a domestic tornado day, but it has been a day with a full house, interrupted by Real Life Romance Hero and Housemate heading out a deux on a grocery run. Insert Rant of the Lonely Extrovert here, because even though grocery shopping with the whole household (minus Skye, who stays home because she is smart and also a kitty) can make me crabby at best and anxious at worst, it’s still out of the house and being around people. Alas, being sun-sensitive won out, because it is blindingly bright out there for those of us (aka me) who are pale and not suited to summer, so I am rambling from my favorite seat at the coffee house down the block from our own abode. It’s nice and dark here, within the exposed brick walls, I have an iced smoky chai in front of me, am functioning remarkably well for someone who has been Mentos-free for over a week and it’s time to take a look at the week ahead and what I am going to do with it, writing wise.

At the moment, I’m at the “staring at the twenty-foot high blank white wall” stage, which is not at all uncommon for a Monday, and I know that it does, indeed pass, so not going to stress about that. Note to self: writing about things that do not bother me all that much does not make for sinctillating interesting reading. If I am making myself yawn reading it, then it’s probably going to elicit the same response from readers. Which is not at all what a writer of commercial fiction wants, by any stretch of the imagination.

Had a train of thought there, but lost it. I hate when that happens. I am going to blame the upset to routine. My ideal method of attack is to make a list over breakfast, prioritize, then do all the things, crossing them off as I go. That did not happen today, and I am feeling the lack. I am also feeling vaguely unsettled that three passes through the main library’s romance section did not yield anything I had to take home with me right that second, but I was able to cull an armful of fresh voices and intriguing situations from the YA shelves in a matter of minutes. Under one, actually. I wasn’t counting. After devouring the realm of possibility and, earlier, How They Met, and Other Stories, both by David Levithan, which were a master course in romance (even if some of those romances don’t end well) and emotion, I had decided I’m going to have to devour everything he’s ever written and see what I can mine from it. If this guy can tell a love story entirely through dictionary entries, that definitely counts as innovation.

That innovation was what I found myself hungry for when I scoured the romance shelves. Historical romance is still my genre. It’s still what I love to read most, and what I love to write, and, at the moment, it has me somewhat itchy. Not sure what this is, but acknowledging this itchiness is important. Today, looking at the shelves, I saw, with the exception of older titles, almost exclusively series. I get the popularity there, I really do. There’s a built in following for many writers that way and many readers like the comfort of returning to a known community with familiar characters and such. I do follow some series, but not because they are series. There has to be something else. When I write, I naturally think in standalones, which can make me feel, at times, like a unicorn.

I see a lot of Regency settings. I’ve tried to write Regency. It did not end well, for anybody involved. My critique partner, Vicki, summed it up best. “You hate writing Regency.” She’s pretty smart that way. I do. Perfectly fine historical era, but where other writers get excited about Almack’s and, um, Empire waists, I get nothing. Dial things back a couple of decades to the Georgian era (yes, yes, I know, the Georgian era technically goes up to the coronation of Queen Victoria, but my blog, my rules) and we’re talking a whole different story. Wigs, high heels, embroidered satin, painted fans, makeup that would make Kat VonD jealous, and then there’s the women.

The historical fiction shelves (and boy howdy, do I love that our library system has a special sticker for book spines to designate historical fiction) get my interest from time to time, but my problem there, and I do love historical settings best of all -plop me down anywhere from the end of the Wars of the Roses to the end of the American Revolution and I am one happy camper- is that fictionalized biographies are a very hard sell for me. (Unless the topic is Anne Bonny, in which case, give, and back away slowly, mama’s reading) I’d rather read about original characters living in that world than the actual figures, though the actual figures can serve in supporting roles. I saw a few titles that looked mildly interesting, and I do know that some older historical romances of a few decades past have had second lives repackaged as historical fiction, as have some of the authors of such, but…

…that’s where things get unicorny. I want something new, within my favorite genre. Give me one hero and one heroine, in a fully realized historical world, make them people of their time, take me on an adventure and deliver on that big happy ending. Along the way? Carte blanche. (Yes, yes, I know, technically Regency term. Refer above; my blog, my rules.) The best way to make that happen, I know, is to write it myself, and I’m working on it, but there are days when I wouldn’t turn down the opportunity to stab things with my sparkly horn for a while.

This may have been one of them, but that’s where the discipline of routine comes in. Monday’s post goes up on Monday. So, here it is. It’s okay if I ramble, because rambling will take me somewhere that stewing will not (and also, I hate cooked carrots, which stews often contain.) I don’t think I’m done yet, but I do have a date with my plotting board and some sticky notes, so wrapping things for now. See you Wednesday,

Random Monday Blatherings – Jump in and Do It.

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In my continued determination to keep blogging on the days I have blog entries planned, I am here. Random picture of moi as your image, taken in afternoon light at my favorite seat in my favorite office away from office, Hudson River Coffee House I love that place. Love it. Cool in the summer, warm in the winter, exposed brick walls, friendly staff, excellent tea, excellent food, the owner sometimes brings his dog (can it be considered a pub dog if it’s not a pub but a coffee house?) My tablet still doesn’t want to connect with the internet there, but my phone and my laptop do, so I think I can deal. Not heading there today, because it’s approximately a thousand degrees outside and my pale, sun sensitive self has already been roasted, including my brain, which is why you are getting this ramble.

You are getting it in text instead of video because humidity has not been nice to hair or makeup today, and because I want to make sure I get at least one non-Skye text post per week. Goals, people. They work I like organization and planning. Getting a big furry mess of chaos into shape and  ranked in order of importance always makes me happy. Having a plan means less uncertainty, and gives me a road map.

So why, then, is this a post about jumping in and doing stuff? Doesn’t that go against the whole plan thing? As it turns out, nope. As I’ve said before, my favorite pieces of writing advice from K.A. Mitchell never fail.

  1. open the file
  2. change your seat

Those have not failed me yet. When I don’t know where to start, that places all options as equal (at least in a certain regard) so the first thing to do is make a decision. I am doing something. I am doing this. What the “this” is can vary from day to day. Today, it’s jump in and write a blog entry. Write a blog entry on writing. What counts as writing? Well, writing, duh. That thing I do with my brain and English and some sort of method for preserving what my brain does with the English. Right now, at my desk, I’m looking at the colored index cards I used to give my On Beyond Fanfic presentation, because I’m going to need them for Play In Your Own Sandbox, Keep All the Toys. Which may need some sort of abbreviation. PIYOSKATT? Sandbox? I’ll get there.

I also have the neon green legal pad with similarly eye-searing but different-hued sticky notes on which I am figuring out the layers of a love scene from the hero’s POV. Love scenes are hard, y’all. Up until recently, I didn’t write them. Call it a case of the “shoulds,” but then I had two characters (Angus and Summer, from ye olde time travel) who blew right past me and wouldn’t let me turn the camera away, because that was some character development going on during that intimate moment and that changed things. When I do get back to Angus and Summer’s story, I’ll be starting pretty much from scratch (have to sweep out all the pesky shoulds) but I know that scene will stay, and probably stay pretty much intact, because it feels like them.

Every couple, and every story is going to be different, because they have their own histories, backstories, insecurities, wounds, hopes, how they’re reading and misreading the other. There’s what’s going right and what’s going wrong, what else is going on around them both internally and externally, and that’s not even taking into account who has what where and when. I use a lot of sticky notes, and I prefer to concentrate more on emotions than body parts, though those certainly do come into play. Like I said, there’s a lot here to choreograph, both physically and not, and maybe the sheer amount of things going on could be one of the reasons I held back on this front at first.

Not to say that all romance novels have to have explicit sex. That’s certainly not the case. Inspirational, sweet, YA, (most) traditional Regencies, etc, prove it’s not a prerequestite. I don’t like the term “clean,” because I don’t think a book that does keep the camera rolling during intimate moments is automatically  “dirty.” I think there’s a lot more to it than that. Authorial intent goes a long way. For me, it’s a matter of staying true to the characters and their stories.

In the end that’s all we can do. Tell our stories, and tell them the way they come to us. For me, that’s usually in longhand, with bullet points, lots of crossing out and layer upon layer.  Sometimes, the first thing that comes to me for a scene is something in the middle, so I go with that. What happened before and what happens after, I can figure out. Hero has a limp now when he didn’t before? Okay, how did he get that? Heroine can read and write in a language I never planned for her? Fine, where did she learn? Instead of fretting about fitting things into somebody else’s system, I find what works best for me, at least right now, is to pick a point to jump in and then splash around. The order will present itself, as long as I show up and get my hands dirty. That, I can do.

…and we have blog entry. Looky there. See you Wednesday, Liebchens.

Typing With Wet Claws: Historical Versimilitude Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Things are taking a definite swing toward fall this week. The sidewalk part of the construction is finished in front of our house, so it is not quite as noisy and the floor does not shake as much. Anty is very happy that there is actual sidewalk now, so she can wear heels when she leaves the house if she wants to, without risking ankle death. Construction is not completely done, as they still have a giant pit in front of the house next door, and we still have new trees to be put in where the old trees used to be. New trees means birdies will come back. I love watching birdies in the morning, so I am excited about that.

Anty does have a funny story about the day they poured the cement, and she said I can tell it, because it is really about me. Uncle was home until dinnertime that day, so Anty went to write at the coffee house. When left the house, she noticed that there were big mesh things laid out in a grid pattern on the gravel in front of our door. That told her they were probably going to pour the cement soon. She did not know how soon, because, when she got home a couple of hours later, there were men in big rubber boots almost to their knees, spreading the cement around. I should mention again that I am an indoor kitty, and Uncle had already left for work.

Anty was very concerned about being able to get in and take care of me. There was cement everywhere, and the workers were not happy about having to find a way for her to get across. One of them asked if she could please use the back door (I do not think he said please.) Anty said that she could, but she would have to go into the back yard (it is really tiny, because we live in a city) to get to the back door and the gate to the back yard is right next to the porch, so she would have to get across the wet cement sea anyway. The workers grumbled about having to put boards across it, but then she said the magic words. She had to get inside and feed the kitty (I am that kitty.)

Well. The workers put two boards up, side by side, and let her hold their hands so she could keep her balance as she walked across them. Anty thanked them and came inside. I got my meal (it was cat food, which is my favorite) and Anty got some more writing done. I love a story with a happy ending.

So does Anty, which is why she writes romance. She started reading romance when she was still a person kitten, only eleven. That first book was The Kadin, by Bertrice Small, and she knew right away that she had found what she wanted to read and write for the rest of her life. She says so far, so good. Anty may give the humans in her books a lot of problems, but, because it is romance, she fixes them by the end. Reading romance novels written by other humans is something that Anty loves  do, but has not had a lot of time for this summer, but now it is almost fall, so she is looking at reading more romances, especially historical ones.

Anty says recommendations are welcome...

Anty says recommendations are welcome…

Some humans like their historical romances to be what they call ‘wallpaper.’ This term confused me at first, because I thought it meant that they took the pages out of their books and covered their walls with them. I guess that is one way to go, but that is not what it means. A ‘wallpaper’ historical romance means that there is very little detail given about the period in which the book is set, only enough to give some flavor. Anty does not do that.

For Anty, the best books to read, and the ones she likes to write, are the ones where the historical world and the romance are intricately intertwined and one could not be the same without the other. This does not mean that she writes about humans who actually lived in those other times, but things those humans do did affect the people around them, including the ones who live in Anty’s head. She wants to know what it is like to slip inside the world in which her story people would have lived, and see the world the way they would have seen it.

Since Anty has not, to my knowledge, mastered time travel (but Uncle says it is okay if she gets in a blue police box if it comes) this means she has to find other ways to know these things. Some humans like reading books (that are not fiction) to learn more, and Anty does that to some extent, but what she likes to do the most is get hands on experience. Living history museums and historical reenactments are her favorites, as she can pick up on details that books may miss. She likes to know for herself what a shipyard smells like, for example, or how heavy a musket is in her hands. She once talked a blacksmith into letting her come right up to the forge, which most guests do not get to do, but Anty has special writer powers. Watching period dramas is also good, because watching people move around in the clothing of a different time tells her more than looking at a still picture, even though portraits from a particular era are the most reliable source of how clothes actually looked. She also is quick to point out that, while things like white wigs and high heels on men look funny to modern people, in the times they were worn, those things were hot stuff, so her book people would probably like them. Then again, it all depends on the characters.

Anty is now making throat clearing noises, which means that has to be about it for this week. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

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

Until next week...

Until next week…

Remembering Bertrice Small, Part Two: As a Writer

annabowling 7 Comments

Bertrice Small was the first professional writer I met in person, and long before I knew that writing stories of loves long ago even could be a job, but as soon as I figured it out, I knew that was what I wanted. I never had anything but support from this lovely lady, even when that support took the form of tough love.

The summer I was sixteen, I had the great good fortune to assist Bertrice Small’s assistant, which mostly consisted of answering fan mail, an experience I still cherish to this day.  This up close and personal view of what a working author actually does, besides the making up stories part only cemented my desire to pursue writing. I spent part of every weekday at the desk in the basement, so much that Bertrice joked that I was going to turn into a mushroom, spending all my time in the dark, underground. As I’m sun-sensitive, that was not a hardship, and I found the whole process fascinating. My “job” consisted of typing out responses to every piece of fan mail, already pre-sorted into one of three prepared responses. No email in those days, and so I had to physically type each reply from a template.  There were three of those: one for readers who read the latest book and liked it; one for readers who had read the book and did not like it (very few of those) ; and those who had read their first Bertrice book. There were special flags for letters that required a personal response beyond that, and those had to go back upstairs before I could stuff the envelopes and send them on their way.

I became a fan of her fan mail that summer. The stories in those letters proved beyond the shadow of a doubt the profound connection romance authors and their readers share. I still remember the letter from one reader who wanted to name her daughter Skye, but her husband vetoed the choice and they settled for another heroine-worthy name. Years later, I worked at a nursery school at college where two of the preschool students, sisters, were named Silver and Skye. Skye would have been old enough to have been born after that letter, so I always wondered if perhaps their mom was that reader. I never found out, but it’s possible.

That summer, I also had free run of Bertrice’s research library after hours (apart from the shelf that held what she needed for her current book) and it was kid in a candy store time. I had no idea what I was doing, so pulled books down at random and paged through them, hoping I’d catch the magic.  Knowing that these books I held in my hands had played a part in creating my favorite novels was a thrill and a half. The best part, though, was yet to come.

I had to write. That was a rule. At the end of the summer, Bertrice would read what I had written and give a fair and honest critique. I. Was. Terrified. I wrote what would be termed YA today, even though that wasn’t what I loved to read (big lesson there – “write what you love” is as important as “write what you know”) and there is no agent or editor pitch that will ever be as nerve-wracking or mean as much to me a sitting on that couch in her office. She pulled no punches, and I am glad she did not. She pointed out every plot hole. Every character blunder. Questioned my adjective choices. She told me to get a dictionary and learn how to spell. She told me to say “fuck” or don’t say “fuck” and not to be coy with allusions. She told me I needed to live if I was going to write (that one, I can safely say I have done) and told me I was going to be terrific one day. I left that meeting emotionally bruised and encouraged all at once. I wanted to write after that, even more, and I did.

I chucked the YA and started a historical romance. Heavily patterned after her own books, I will admit, to the point of pastiche, but here’s the thing. I was hungry to write that book. Starving for it. I raced home from first high school and then college classes to pound out new pages every single day. I lived and breathed that hero and heroine. Bertrice said I could call her anytime with writing questions, and I did. No, I could not give my Tudor era English hero a French first  name.  Yes, politics of the time were interesting. She answered a lot of questions about the industry and gave me a lot of homework. She never saw that manuscript, which now lives in a storage unit where it can’t hurt anybody, but being treated, not as a kid on a whim, but as a serious novelist myself, did more to sustain me than anything else during that writing.

Fast forward double digit years, and we were both at the Long Island Romance Writer’s Luncheon. Mentor and aunt at once, Madam Bertrice asked me which editors or agents I had wanted to meet at the event, and charged me to stay put. “I’ll go get them,” she said, and she did. “This is my niece,”
she said. “She’s going to pitch her book.” She told them she always thought my wanting to be a romance writer was a phase, but it obviously wasn’t, so she’d do what she could. The rest was up to me. She did it again at another luncheon, a year or so later. Both times, I got requests for full manuscripts. No sales from those encounters, but valuable input and experience.

I’m sad today that I won’t ever be able to hand her a paper copy of one of my books, but the fact is, my books, both past and future, exist in part because Bertrice Small was a wonderful writer, an encourager, a tough teacher and a lover of the great genre she helped to build.

Remembering Bertrice Small, pt 1: As a Reader

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I’ve spent some time thinking about how I could encapsulate the influence Bertrice Small has had on me as a reader, writer and human being in general, into one post, and what I came up with was that I couldn’t, so I’m not going to try.  One post is going to be three.

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I read my first Bertrice Small novel, which was also the first Bertrice Small novel, The Kadin, at the tender age of eleven, but I’d known about it long before. Bertrice’s husband, George, and my dad, had been in the army together, one of those friendships that was so close, it was a shock when I figured out they weren’t biologically related. So, it was normal to have grown up with mentions of “Aunt Sunny’s book.” A story fiend from day one, I remember asking a lot of questions about it, most of which were creatively evaded, and I remember being in the local Caldor with my mother, combing the paperback racks on one fateful day when The Kadin was a brand new release from a new author. Could I read it? No, my mom said, I was too young, but I wouldn’t be put off. Something about the cover called to me. I pestered and pestered and pestered her for at least a rough outline of the plot.

At last, my mom bowed to the inevitable and gave in. A sixteenth century Scottish girl got sold into slavery and spent forty years in a harem and then came home because her daughter in law didn’t like her. I remember the words rushing out of my mother’s mouth all in one go, and the way her eyes darted as if looking for a better answer. I also remember the insistent voice in the back of my head that whispered an insistent, “sold!” I stole the book from her nightstand shortly after that, knew, within the very first few pages, that I had found what I wanted to read and write for the rest of my life. Mom caught me reading The Kadin under the bed in the guest bedroom, by flashlight, during a thunderstorm that knocked out the power. She confiscated the book. I stole it back. I also wrote a book report on it. To her credit, my teacher, Mrs. Potter, did not contact my parents and gave me an A. She also took me aside and talked to me about becoming a writer myself someday. Good spotting, Mrs. P.

By the time the second book, Love Wild and Fair, a title which I was and am rapturously in love with, came out, I was still too young, but I did it again. Stole that book, saw exactly why Aunt Sunny was as in love with Bothwell as Catriona was, and I fell as hard for Scotland as I had for Ottoman Turkey in the previous book. It all filled my mind to overflowing. Not the sex scenes at that point, but the history, the drama, the descriptions and relationships, all lush and full and vivid as life. I got caught again, got a lecture from my mother again, got steered again toward more appropriate reading, which fell flat for the reasons above. I also got a stern talking to from Aunt Sunny herself.

By the time her third book, Adora, came out, I received my own autographed copy as a gift, along with a promotional poster. I have no idea where that poster is now (hopefully in storage, where it can be retrieved and displayed) but I still have my much-loved copy of the book, signed, this time, to me. I’ve acquired a few more signed copies since then, by the same and other authors, but none will ever match that thrill of seeing the very first book a favorite author signed with their very own hand.

I remember exactly where I was when I first read the opening pages of Skye O’Malley (the book, not the kitty) and not wanting to get out of the car to follow my father to the yard sale that was apparently more important than me diving into this book. My mother had passed away by that point, and she and Aunt Sunny had agreed, when Adora came out, that I was going to steal the book anyway, so I may as well have my own copies in the future, no matter my age. When I first met Skye, the fictional character, my life changed. Strong, smart, headstrong heroines, who could be adventurous, leaders, survivors, history-makers, beautiful inside and out, make mistakes -even huge ones- and still come out on top? Oh yes, please. Give me that. Teach me how to make that.

I soaked it up like a sponge, and was unspeakably thankful to have someone as knowledegable as the author herself to help me counter my father’s argument that romance was “all soft porn” with facts and definitions. Her recommendations of other amazing books in the genre – The Outlaw Hearts by Rebecca Brandewyne and The Spanish Rose by Shirlee Busbee stand out, and, boy, was she right. She recommended other authors I might like if I liked her: Cynthia Wright, Virginia Henley, Morgan Llewellyn, and a man named Jennifer (Wilde, aka Tom E. Huff.)

Bertrice Small opened a whole new world for me, one where love stories were worthy of history, and in some cases, sprang directly from it. For a kid who had honestly thought that the only options for me were hard science fiction and mystery, neither of which caught spark with me, no matter how hard I tried, it was a revelation. In historical romance, I found my reader heart set free, and I knew, deep down in the marrow of my bones, that this was what I was meant to write, as well. I will always, always be thankful to Bertrice Small for that.

Fumbling Toward Storytown

annabowling 4 Comments

You should walk towards yourself as a writer, not away.
—Chuck Wendig

Writer Friends: What are you working on right now?

Me: :shifty eyes: Um, :mumble mumble: New historical :mumble mumble: Georgian. :mumble mumble: Something about a love triangle. :mumble mumble: Canada.  :mumble mumble: Hey, look, a kitty.

Even if there’s no kitty. Really, all I want is to change the subject. Current Project doesn’t want to be talked about yet. Odd for me, since extrovert me really does want to talk to Everybody about pretty much All The Things, though I’ve tried really really hard to hold myself back on that. Sometimes too much. There has to be a happy medium, and sometimes it’s tricky to find. On the other hand, there is such a thing as talking too much about a story, so much so that A) It’s all talked out and now no longer needs to be written, and/or B) there’s so much input from so many different sources that outside voices drown out the voices of the characters. In either event, nothing gets done, and the characters sit around in the author’s brain, all crabby because they were all set to have this awesome adventure and now nobody’s doing anything and what are they even here for?

Imagine various couples dressed in garb from various historical eras, drumming their fingers on various tables, sighing loudly and looking out the windows because they are sooooo booooored. Not with being historical people (except for Anthony and Christine, whom I tried to shove into a Regency setting where neither they nor I are at all  happy, because Regency sells, but my heart wasn’t in it. We’ll give this a rest and try again in a different era when they are speaking to me again.) or with being couples, but with being stuck in stories that weren’t working because I was so determined to do things the way they “should” be done that I couldn’t have shipwrecked them worse if I tried.

Can they be rescued? Sure, most of them. We need some time to let the dust settle, these would-be books and I. Others will shake hands (or bow and curtsy as the case may be) and go our separate ways, glad to have been in each other’s lives for the good times we had. Time plus distance equals perspective, and taking a step back from a story-that-won’t is often the key to making it into a story-that-will, and eventually a story-that-did.

The story I’d thought I could maybe possibly have done and dusted, at least to the halfway mark, if I did do NaNo merely laughed at me. It didn’t want to be plotted with charts or GMC’d into marching order. No, these two have banded together and want to play with me. They’ll tell me this much, but I have to figure out this other thing before they’ll say anything else, but when I do, they have something special for me. I haven’t had a hero and heroine do this to me before, but that’s kind of the whole point, having those characters find me while I’m still wandering around in the woods at night, bumping into trees and getting my foot caught in decayed logs. One of them will help me sit on some boulder I never noticed before and the other one will calmly disengage my foot from the rotted log, chase off whatever wildlife was inside said log (because there usually is) and then we’ll have a talk. They’ll tell me their story and I will write it down.

Because that’s what it’s all about for me. The hero, the heroine, their story. All the rest, word counts and GMC and plot and historical versimilitude (far better than historical accuracy, but that’s another post altogether) and character charts and all the rest, those come secondary. Listening to too many voices has resulted in the past with me stomping about in the woods at night, during a rainstorm, with both feet in rotten logs and a bucket stuck in my head, and I’m over all that, thankyouverymuch. Here’s this couple (even when they unite to make me their plaything, but I’m not minding much, really; it’s fun for me, too.) and here’s me and we’re going on an adventure. Feels about right.

Throwback Thursday, Historical Romance Division: November of the Heart by LaVyrle Spencer

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Out of all of LaVyrle Spencer’s books, and I have loved all of them that I’ve read, all of the historicals, and even dipped my toes into one contemporary, Separate Beds, November of the Heart is the one that sticks with me the most. That’s saying a lot. I have to confess, in the interest of full disclosure, that I have had more than one friend (two, at my best recollection) yell at me via email, because they didn’t know this book was going to have so many feelings. That’s why I love it.

One friend even said the title was “too sad” for her, but again, the title sold me right away. I love November, the month of coziness and deliciousness and giving thanks and  world full of color and scent and the holidays only a glimmer away. Turn of the century Minnesota is not an overplowed field in the historical romance world, and the all important annual regatta means everything to both the wealthy father of heroine Lorna and Jens, a boatbuilder pressed into service as a waiter. Slipping plans for a prize winning boat into one’s employer’s dessert is a recipie for disaster, but it also opens the door for a grand and glorious love that defies class barriers.

Lorna and Jens are star crossed lovers, Lorna drawn to Jens and his boat, their connection -it goes beyond attraction- gets tried by class, by time, by life, but when Jens and Lorna finally say the hell with everything that keeps them apart, I want to take a victory lap and toss confetti.  If LaVyrle Spencer ever wants to come out of retirement, I am leaving the porch light on for  her. If not, what she’s left us with is still magnificient.

Throwback Thursday, Historical Romance Division

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Wild Bells to the Wild Sky by Laurie McBain

Wild Bells to the Wild Sky by Laurie McBain

It’s that time again.  Wild Bells to the Wild Sky, by Laurie McBain, is one of those books. The all time favorites, the ones where I have only to hear the names of the hero and heroine -in this case, Lily Christian and Valentine Whitelaw, how perfect are those?- to immediately reimmerse myself in their romance and adventure. 

This book has huge servings of both. Set in the Elizabethan era, largely on a deserted island, Lily and her brother grow up wild and in seclusion. Lily, her mother, and a family friend are the sole survivors of a shipwreck, the sole inhabitants of the island…until mother and friend produce Lily’s brother, that is. Ahem. Then fever takes the parents, and Queen Elizabeth sends courtier Valentine Whitelaw in search of the missing party, and then things really get interesting. 

History, intrigue, romance, fabulous locations, a clever heroine and dashing hero, gorgeous descriptions, and one of my top five historical romance endings of all time make this book one I go back to time and again. 

Since we’re waxing nostalgic on Thursdays, here are a few recent things I’ve been up to: 

Guest Post at Savvy Authors: From a Certain Perspective, It’s All Fan Fiction: From Fan Fiction to Fantastic Fiction begins on September 1st, so I’m delighted to get to blabber about the useful tools we can find in the books, movies, tv and music we already love. Drop by and try a fun exercise to combine old favorites in new ways. 

Outlander “Sassenach” recap at Heroes and Heartbreakers: Cue incomprehensible squeeing, Jamie and Claire are now on the small screen, and I’ll be recapping each new episode as it airs. How cool is that, I get to watch Outlander and say I’m working. 

 1 Line Wednesday on Twitter, always a highlight of my week. 

 

What are you reading?