romance

Pirate Queens and Clan Chiefs

annabowling Leave a comment

When I think about the power of romance, the first thing that comes to mind is the bathroom at my dad’s house, when I was a teen and young adult. Those were not easy years, but I knew that, no matter what else was going on, I had an ace in the hole, namely the romance novels I hid in the cabinet under the sink. Only one at a time, and, to the best of my recollection, I only read those books in that bathroom. Usually with the seat of the porcelain throne closed, or seated on the edge of the tub. I read The Spanish Rose, by Shirlee Busbee, and The Outlaw Hearts, by Rebecca Brandewyne. I know there were others, but I remember those two in particular, because they were the first books to live under that sink, and, when I needed a good place to go, there they were, ready to take me back in time and into vibrantly told stories.

Obviously, I did not stay in that bathroom, or that house, forever, and, since there is only so much time one can spend in a bathroom without arousing suspicion, I had to read those books in short, fervent bursts, before stashing them back behind cans of scrubbing bubbles and other accoutrements of bathroom sanitation. I didn’t always want to unlock the door and come out, but, when I did, I carried with me the inspiration of the heroines of the books I loved, their determination to never bow to the obstacles life threw their way, but keep pressing on, knowing the reward would be there, on the other side of their troubles.

My favorite heroines, then and now, are the ones who have been through some stuff. You know the kind. Sold to a first husband literally old enough to be their grandfather, because that was a good step into society for the family. The kinds of heroines who find themselves stranded on the road west with a fully stocked wagon, but no horses, and figure they better get on with getting those horses, even if they do have to take the dude who comes with them. Pirate queens and clan chiefs. Countesses in their own rights. Plucky actresses who work what their mamas gave them, now that the new king is letting women on the stage. Bondservants or enslaved women who may be going through hell, but, hang the consequences, they keep on going. Highwaywomen and pickpockets, grande dames and gamines, even a princess or two. Not the Disney kind, who gets dressed with the help of small woodland creatures, but the badass kind, who woman up and do what has to be done, to take care of those who depend on them.

The princesses I liked, back to when I was but a wee little princess myself, were not the ones who waited in a tower for somebody to get them out (though I did and do like Rapunzel; no matter what else, the gal has a-ma-zing hair.) but take a look at the battle before them and either strap on a sword and ride out with their soldiers, or get themselves up to that high tower and direct the pouring of pitch on the invading forces. I vividly remember reading one Catherine Coulter medieval where the heroine broke a siege on her castle by having her men bring the one sow the castle had left, all the way up to the tower, where the wind could carry her scent to the enemy troops, who had brought a bunch of male boars with them. Said sow was in season, and her scent proved, hmm, shall we say irresistible, to the boy boars. I have never, personally, been in a military encampment suddenly besieged with hormone-crazed creatures with large, curving tusks, but, from that description, I know it’s an experience I don’t want in real life. In romance novels, though? Heck yeah. Bring it on.

Those were the heroines I hung out with in that long-ago bathroom, and, I hope, the ones who hang out with me now in my office, as I write their stories. If they find their way underneath someone else’s bathroom sink one day (apart from propping up a wonky support, but hey, I’ll take that, too. Still counts.) then I will consider the job well done.

I don’t consider reading, especially romance, an escape. I consider it respite. I consider it restoration, renewal, fuel and fortification. I consider it food in my belly and shoes on my feet. In romance novels, things are going to get bad. Of course they are. Fiction eats conflict for breakfast, because that’s the big question; how are the characters going to get out of this predicament? Nevertheless, our heroines persist, and so do the heroes who love them. In romance, the woman always wins, and her beloved wins, too, as does the writer, even if the process of getting the two lovers from once upon a time to happily ever after does sometimes (okay, a lot of times) feel like herding cats. There’s nothing like typing The End, and sitting back in the chair with a satisfied sigh, because it’s HEA for those two now, and, soon, for the reader.

As for the writer, well, it’s different there. The writer may take a break, may devour a whole stack of other writers’ work, but, soon enough, the voices will start again, other invitations to other adventures, other heroines who don’t take no for an answer, and on it goes, once again.

 

 

Marrow and Bone

annabowling Leave a comment

When I was but a wee little princess, my father built me two bookcases. My parents filled them, first with picture books, and friends and family members added to the collection as I grew. I remember sobbing inconsolably when I pieced together that Morte de Arthur meant that King Arthur was actually dying and not living happily ever after with Queen Guinevere. The whole Lancelot thing went over my head at that tender age, and I still have mixed feelings about the whole triangle. Maybe I’ll explore a similar dynamic in some future novel of my own, someday. I did not take the fall of Camelot well, either, despite my father’s attempts to explain how noble and tragic it all was.

Fast forward a few decades, and those very same bookcases now live in my office, and they are stuffed with romance novels. The top case (one stacks on the other) holds my Bertrice Small collection, while the other holds various keepers, and books on writing, some of them (my favorites) specifically on the writing of romance. I have two copies of How to Write a Romance and Get it Published, by Kathryn Falk, the brains behind RT Book Reviews, and they are both tattered. Granted, a lot of the information is obsolete now, with the e-publishing revolution, the advent of independent publishing, and whole subgenres have come and gone since the first edition first hit the stands, but I still treasure those books, and still refer to them, because the most important part of each entry has no expiration date.

The inspiration I get from reading the words of those who have gone before, some of whom are now retired, some now gone to the great library in the sky, some of whom are still with us now, still bringing their A game, book after book, is new every time I dip into that particular well. It’s there, too, when I dive into the books that gave me my love of historical romance; big, epic stories of love that could conquer impossible odds – and always, always did. Always will, as a matter of fact. That’s not a cliché. That’s the foundation of the genre. No matter what else happens, or doesn’t happen, by the end, our two lovers will be together, and happy about it.

That’s the skeleton of the genre. With that in place, we can hang anything on that framework. Once I took my first step into the genre proper, I read love stories that took place in medieval times, the Gilded Age, and everything in between. Heroes and heroines were titled nobility, gentry, dirt-poor, outcasts and pirates, bondservants and performers, and a thousand other variations. Through the pages of books, found in used bookstores, flea markets, libraries, and the then-king of chain bookstores, Waldenbooks, I fell in love a million times over. I knew, not hoped, knew that I had to tell stories of my own, in that same vein.

I can’t say it was a choice. More like I came pre-programmed for romance fiction. I don’t know if my biological mother read romance, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she did. My real mother did, mostly from paper sacks filled with big, thick, glossy historical romances that came with my Aunt Lucy, every time she visited. My job was to take the bag of books to the laundry room, de-bag them, and put them where Mom wanted. I wasn’t allowed to read them, a rule I did not, at the time, think to question, apart from stealing the Small titles, which did not come from Aunt Lucy, but I did study each cover, read the back blurbs, breathe them deep into the very marrow of my bones. Yes. This.

I assigned my own characters to the people on the covers, made up my own stories to go along with them. It didn’t occur to me to write those down, not then, but I would turn them over in my head for days or weeks, paint pictures in my mind, and feel the stories as vibrantly as I did what is generally called real life. When real life got stinky, I went to that story place more, not as an escape -I always had to come back, after all- but as a respite, a place to go and remind myself that things get better after they get worse. That’s what the heroines in the books, both real and imaginary always did. They kept going. They fell down, they got back up. They fell down again, got back up again, and became all the stronger for it. In the end, they got all they ever wanted, and more. They got a hero who loved them exactly the way they were, who always had their backs and knew they could count on the same thing in return. Sometimes, back then, if there was a connected book, it could be the child of the first couple, all grown up, and ready for their own adventure. I loved that kind of thing. Still do. Who knows? Maybe I’ll write one of those, myself, too. If there’s one thing romance fiction teaches us is that, with love, all things are possible.

When I look a little ways down the road, and think about what to write next, after the current WIPs are out in the world, I’m not worried. I have the core of my stories already in my marrow and bones; two imperfect people will find their broken edges fit into a cohesive whole, and the love they share means that nothing life throws at them even stands a chance. I think that’s a pretty good place to start.

Air in My Lungs and Blood in My Veins

annabowling Leave a comment

So, apparently, August is Romance Appreciation Month. I did not know that was a thing. I probably should, because I write romance, and I write about romance, and, when I’m not doing any of those things, I am probably reading romance, but, until now, that has not penetrated my brain. I do follow Read a Romance Month, and eagerly looked forward to the onslaught of essays sharing the love of my favorite genre in all its forms, but it wasn’t until today, when, coincidentally, I needed a blog topic, so good timing.

That book in today’s deskscape is the actual copy of The Kadin, by Bertrice Small, that I stole from my mother’s nightstand and sneak-read under the brass bed in the guest bedroom. Only a few pages into that book, at the tender age of eleven, I knew I had found what I wanted to read and write for the rest of my life. By the time my mother found her book missing and followed the flashlight beam, I knew squat doodle about the romance genre. I could kick myself now, for not picking up those early copies of a magazine then called Romantic Times, which, soon after, alternated with Rave Reviews, which covered all genres, with a smaller romance section than Romantic Times. but, then again, I was young, my allowance may not have covered the expense, and my parents probably would have had something to say on the matter. Also the whole not knowing romance novels were really a thing, thing,. but I digress. I stole the next Small book from that same nightstand (by now, my mom was on to my larcenous ways) and, by the time Adora came out, I received my own copy as a gift, because everybody involved knew I was going to read it anyway.

It wasn’t until I attended a summer program for young creative people, at Wesleyan University, that I purchashed my first non-Small historical romance. By this time, I knew that romance was indeed a thing, and had a handle on some of the differences. All Harlequin books were romance novels, but not all romance novels were Harlequins, and jokes about not letting Harlequin get me did not sit well, even if they were meant to amuse. Hmm, let’s see, published by one of the biggest publishers on the planet, in the most popular genre of all genre fiction? Yeah, I can see what a horrible fate that would be. At the time, Harlequin meant exclusively contemporary category (how times have changed) so the odds weren’t high that I would have what they wanted, but none of that did anything to quell the absolute assurance that writing historical romance was what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.

Did I know what period? Eh, not really. The historical I started writing at seventeen could best be described as nebulous Tudoresque, and, when I first put fingers to typewriter keys, I wasn’t sure what era I wanted to write, so I remained purposely vague as to the actual setting, a remote estate far, far, far away from anything. The pages from that book now reside in a storage unit where they can’t hurt anybody, and, as I work on the second draft of Her Last First Kiss, I have not only a calendar covering the dates of the story, but researched the phase of the moon for the night when Ruby and her Hero have their titular first kiss, because I needed to know exactly how much of him she’d be able to see (spoiler: not much.) Between the minute my mom busted me under the guest room bed and this morning, when my Kindle saw me through wash and dry cycles at the laundromat, I have read a lot of romance novels. No, I am not going to try to count them.

I have had four of my own published and hope to add to that number in the very near future. When I first knew I wanted to be a writer (or was a writer, depending on how one measures these things) I thought that mystery and hard science fiction were the only options, but I couldn’t connect with either, no matter how hard I tried. Romance, though? That was, and is, air in my lungs and blood in my veins. I am sure there are mystery writers who feel the same way about their genre, and I know there are SF writers who feel the same about theirs. Truly, I hope every writer finds their home and lives in it.

For me, that is romance. One dearly beloved aunt always expected I would grow out of my desire to write romance, which I announced proudly in my early teens. If that hasn’t happened yet, I don’t think it’s going to, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Taking two characters, each with their own wounds, baggage, and inner demons, through the trials of life, until they can make a life together, and, together, taking on all comers – that’s my catnip. That’s my jam. That’s air in my lungs and blood in my veins. I can’t not write romance, and believe me, I’ve tried. I tried when I thought my options were limited. I tried when people in my life had strong opinions in other directions. I tried when I thought I couldn’t write, or shouldn’t write, or had lost the right to write, and failed miserably in all such attempts, because the power of love, and the power of romance fiction, really is that strong.

I love that there is a romance appreciation month, because it celebrates the awesome power of romance for the reader and writer alike, and because it gives me a focus for my blog entries over the next few weeks. Stay tuned.

 

On Getting There

annabowling 2 Comments

Today is Wednesday, almost the middle of July, and so muggy that I think I saw air fish in the kitchen. Real Life Romance Hero took an umbrella with him when he left for work, as we might have rain later on in the day, but then again, maybe not. Weather forecasts are funny that way.  Monday night’s marathon session did turn out a full second draft chapter of Her Last First Kiss, but also cemented the fact that marathon sessions like that are not good for body, mind, or spirit. Which means spreading the love, er drafting, in a more equitable manner, around the same seven days everybody gets in a given week.

On the one hand, this is a smart decision, and it does mean I get to hunker down with calendar and planner and pretty colored pens, to figure out a better way to get from where I am, which is in the middle of two second drafts, to where I want to be, which is two completed second drafts, and, beyond that, two more books out there in the world. On the other hand, I want to be there already. What the heck is wrong with me? Other people are there already. Friend X has a new book, Friend Y has a new book, Favorite Author A has a new book, Favorite Author B has a new series, and me? Still getting there.

Getting back there, really. Sometimes, that feels like more of a climb than starting from scratch. Either way, it’s the same thing. Butt in chair, fingers on keyboard, or pen on paper. Keep mind on the story, figure out what works and does not work, do the stuff that works, do not do the stuff that does not work, and if Hypercritical Gremlins start mouthing off (mine have been relatively silent of late) do what’s needed to shush them, and keep on going. One page a day is a book in a year. Bare minimum, do that, and this time, next year, look what happened.

Yes, there is pressure. Some from outside the writer, some from inside the writer, but, news flash, everybody has that. Do the superstars have pressure? Yes, they do. That’s not going to go away. Do they have families? Yes, most of them do. If we expand to include families-of-choice, then all of them do.  All of us do, whether this is a writer’s first book, or their hundredth (or beyond) and we all get there the same way. Get up. Write stuff. Go all the way to the end. Get feedback. Make it better. Put it where other people can see it, whether that means traditional or indie publishing, or a combination of both.

If I could have picked any time to have a successful career writing historical romance, I would pick the mid-1970s, when the genre was the new kid on the block, stories were sweeping, and excitement was high. Romance authors appeared on talk shows, and there was an image involved in the whole thing. Underneath that? Same thing we have now, for the most part. Those writers had to write the books before they could promote them, before readers could devour them and name kids and/or pets after the characters. Seeing as how I spent that actual period of time in elementary school, and have not yet mastered the art of time travel (shoot, even my time travel manuscript is locked away where it can’t hurt anybody) that’s probably not going to happen.

Been a few changes in the industry since then, not to mention my own life, and yet the same desire to tell these stories and share them with readers hasn’t gone away. If it hasn’t left by this time, it’s not going, so we are going to have to find some way to live with each other, day by day. Would I like to say I’ve found the perfect way to allocate my time and connect with each story and keep the confidence meter at least over the halfway mark? Yes. Am I going to actually say I’m there right now? No, because I don’t want to lie. Some days are harder than others. Some days are easier. It’s a balance. No matter what kind of day it is, though, I can put my butt in the chair. If there’s an ice pack behind said butt, or an afghan atop…okay, not the actual butt, but you know where I’m going with this…that’s okay. The butt is not what does the actual writing.

This feels like a defensive post, and maybe it is. That’s okay. What I want to do with this blog is show the whole journey, and these days are part of it. Yesterday, at critique meeting, N and I discussed how we’re going to handle looking over each other’s manuscripts when we’re done with our respective drafts (first for her, second for me) and that brought up the question of what’s next.

When she asked me, I said I didn’t know. After Chasing Prince Charming, comes Drama King. Melva and I already have dipped toes in the water on that, and we’ll be raring to go as soon as we put this second draft to bed. Pun unintended, but it can stay.  After Her Last First Kiss? I don’t know. N asked if maybe I could write another book about Ruby and her Hero, but this is a romance, so the romance would have to be the center of the book, and they’re going to be happy at the end of this one. If I were writing their story back in the 1970s, it wouldn’t be that unheard of to make them unhappy, drag them through more trials, and make them happy again at the end of that book. What I told N was, “probably something else.” Some of those stories on hold may bubble to the surface, or I might catch a spark of something new.

Right now, I’m not thinking about that. Somewhere, off in the back of my mind is the fact that, right now, linked books are where the money is, so that might be a general direction, but that’s for later. Right now, I have these two books that need me, and that’s good enough for now.

Typing With Wet Claws: Need a Bigger Teapot Edition

annabowling Leave a comment

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Anty did not want to chase me around the apartment this morning, to get my blog picture, so, instead, she edited one of my greatest hits from Instagram this week. Personally, I question her dedication if she switches to Plan B that easily, but I did not make it easy for her, either. She has a bunch of pictures of my blurry turned head, so I kind of see her point, but still…

Anyway, I know the rules around here. That means I need to tell you where you can read Anty’s writing on the interwebs this week, besides here. First, as always, Anty was at Buried Under Romance this past Saturday. This week, she talked about when e-books travel in packs, aka box sets. Are they the electronic equivalent of paperback anthologies? Do you read them? Do you like them? Her post is here, and its link on the main page looks like this:

BURboxset

Those of you who have been following Anty’s Goodreads challenge will be happy to know that she is now officially back on track. Anty did a very good job on reading this week, and I am proud of her. Now to work on the historical romance side of things, because time for reporting her progress on that is coming soon, on the first week of the month. Tick tock, Anty. This week, Anty read:

Gentlehands, by M. E. Kerr (YA)

Stormswept, by Sabrina Jeffries (historical romance)

Just One Night, by Gayle Forman (YA romance)

 

Together, they all look like this:

 

This is a very interesting mix. There is a character in Gentlehands, who is named Skye.  I appreciated that.  She is not a kitty, though. (Also, a bad thing happens to a doggie, and a human who did very bad things is a big part of the book.)  Gentlehands is not exactly a historical book, and it is not exactly a romance, but it was written in the 1970s, which was a long time ago (especially in kitty years) and things that happened in the 1940s, which was even longer-ago (also especially in kitty years,) are very important to the story, and it has romantic elements.

Both Stormswept and Just One Night have strong Shakespearean connections. The male human in Just One Night is a Shakespearean actor, which is to say he is a modern day actor who performs the plays Shakespeare wrote many centuries ago. The story in Stormswept was inspired by what could have happened in Romeo and Juliet, if some things had gone differently, and it is set in the eighteenth century, which is Anty’s focus right now, so she gets points for that.

Anty also says I have to apologize for the fact that comments were submitted, but not posted. Miss Rhonda, and Miss Angelina, I am very sorry. I honestly thought the contact form was an easier way to leave comments. Apparently, it is actually an easier way to send emails. That is now a new thing that I know. Miss Angelina, I will answer your email, because Anty helped me find it again. Miss Rhonda, Anty does not know how I managed to delete your email entirely, but she said it might help if I reminded you that posting can be tricky when one has paws instead of hands. Also, that I am cute. Being cute goes a really long way around here.

Notebook coordination

 

It has been almost a whole week since Anty got her not-a-bullet-journal notebook cover, and things are going pretty well with that. She still pets the cover, but not as much as she pets me, so I am okay with that. She actually does have a list of lists to make in the gridded notebook that is for lists and tracking, but that does not surprise anybody around here. So far, she is making good use of all the different sections, and has managed to color-coordinate her notebook, notepad, pen, and folder, for Her Last First Kiss critique pages.

This week, Anty had a headache that made it not great for writing in time to meet Miss N on Tuesday, so they moved their meeting to Thursday. Anty told Miss N that this was a hard week to write, because of the headache and domestic tornadoes, but that she was not worried, because Miss N is a very good critique partner, and they would figure out what Anty needed to do, to make the scene work. Thankfully, that is what happened, and Anty spent a lot of time yesterday, writing in one of the notebooks inside the pink cover, to dig deeper into Heroine’s head and turn the emotional thumbscrews. Anty loves turning emotional thumbscrews. On fictional characters, that is. She does not do that in real life, at least not intentionally.

Anyway, about this week’s pages, Miss N pointed out to Anty that Hero and Heroine have basically twenty minutes, tops, to go from being people who both know the same other person, to having a relationship of their own. I was not there, because this happened away from home, but I have been home when Anty has had similar reactions, and she usually makes a very interesting sound, and then requires more tea. This challenge made her think she might need a bigger teapot, because she is going to need a lot of tea.

Even so, she is looking forward to taking a metaphorical scalpel to the pages she has already written, and getting in there, deeper, to work the pulse of this scene. It is not going to be an easy one for Hero or Heroine, because they have to come to a place of trusting each other, and neither of them are very good with trusting other people. I cannot say I blame them. When I was a kitten, and mama brought me home from the shelter, I stayed in my carrier for four whole hours until I finally got hungry and figured it was safe to come out. Mama and Anty say my legs were on backorder, because I stayed super close to the ground for a couple of weeks. Then I figured out they were my humans, and it was probably okay to show them how tall I really was. It is like that for Hero and Heroine, but with feelings.

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

skyebanner01

skyebyefancy

Until next week…

 

Sticky Scenes

annabowling 1 Comment

Last night, I stayed up until 3AM, working on a scene for Her Last First Kiss. This is a second draft, not a first draft, but it’s still discovery, and I think I’m still discovering, especially with one particular scene. This is the same scene where the nameless clerk apparently didn’t come back from break, and sent an actual character in his stead. I am fine with that. What I’m not fine with is when I get into the middle of a scene, where I (think I) know what’s happening, who says what, to whom, who does what, when and where, coasting along, and then…nothing.

All the pertinent players suddenly stand on a blank stage and blink at me. Uh, guys, what’s going on here? They only blink more. They were hoping I knew. I’m the writer, after all. Well, yes, I am, but it’s their story. Especially those two. Hero and Heroine. You know who you are. I ordered sexual tension. Who has the sexual tension? Why are you just standing there? In case you haven’t guessed, I really, really, really hate when this happens. Like super hate. I know this story. I love this story. I have already written this story, which is why we call this a second draft, so why, for the love of pregnant hamsters on roller skates, are we doing the blinking on a blank stage thing?

Not that blank stages are inherently evil. I love A Chorus Line. The stage show, that is, not the movie. The movie breaks the conceit of the show, and, if they’re going to do that, why not tell a completely different story, because that’s basically what we’ve got. For A Chorus Line, that is, not Her Last First Kiss. Even the most lavishly designed set starts as a blank stage, and I do know what the jeweler’s shop looks like, who my people are, and what they need to be doing there.

This time, though, it felt…crowded. Heroine has a lot going on in her head. She’s still mad at Hero, but there he is, alongside Character X, whom she also does not really want to see right now, but she doesn’t get a choice on that. She’s also faced with the fact that, even though Hero is annoying the crap out of her, he does clean up rather well (she’ll want to put a sticky note on that for later) and she wants to get her errands done, go the heck home, and put her feet up with a book of Russian fairy tales and a cup of tea (I would not mind that, myself, actually) but nooooo. We are only a smidge past the 25% mark, so of course it is time to turn the thumbscrews.

Which is why flat and lukewarm is not what we’re going for here. I slapped it on the page anyway. I’ll show it to N tomorrow (Tuesday got pushed to Thursday this week, due to a sinus headache and accompanying drainage; mine, not N’s) and she will help me sift for nuggets. When I can’t write the actual scene, a thing I’ve been teaching myself to do is to write about it. That’s the pen and paper version of talking things out. I can do the talking things out version with N tomorrow, so I know the solution is on its way, and I can start looking at the next scene, which is when the tension that gets planted in this scene (or should be planted in this scene) bursts into full bloom, Hero and Heroine are alone together but for servants who don’t count in this context (and who are more into each other, anyway, so not much of a help at the moment. Thanks, guys. :slow clap:)

I employed my BFF, caffeine, kept butt in chair, and booted Character X out of the scene, in an incredibly unsubtle “I’m going to leave now, bye” exit, that is not quite “pursued by a bear,” but I’m starting to think the bear wouldn’t hurt. Also, Character X would scream like a little girl at the sight of a bear, but we’re in eighteenth century London, so bears are not exactly plentiful, especially not in a fancy rich person jewelry store. This will not go down on record as my smoothest transition ever, and I am counting on N to have suggestions on how to de-obvious Character X’s departure, but, once I got Character X out of the way, Hero and Heroine at least started talking to each other, and we did get incidental physical contact, so I am going to count that as  a mark in the positive column.

 

Mapping the Wilderness

annabowling 4 Comments

Technically, I am dressed. Technically, I am wearing makeup. Technically, I have a new daily pages notebook, but I think this one is actually for some other purpose. My brain works like that, so I am not surprised.

Last night, I finished reading Follow the Heart, by Anita Mills, a historical romance set in England, New York, and Canada, during the French and Indian War. Technically, I have my third book hangover in the last few weeks. This is not entirely a bad thing, but it does leave me with the “crap, what do I read now?” part of the book hangover, that makes finding a new book, which I may very well love as much or even more than the book that haunts my storybrain, all that much harder. This is where making a reading list can come in handy, and, knowing me, I really should have one of those. At present, I do not.

This surprises me. I do extremely well with lists, and, since I do have a goal of reading more historical romance, especially eighteenth century historical romance, and specifically the kind of historical romance that does give me a book hangover, from characterization, author voice, etc, having a list would be a huge help, but I don’t have one right now. Part of me still wants to go on instinct/intuition on this one, or maybe I haven’t found the right organizational system yet. I don’t know if I can say that’s anything like falling in love with a gorgeous notebook, deciding it will be the perfect thing to succeed my current morning pages book, getting it home at last, and then my brain won’t quit going back to the two other notebooks I also looked at on that same trip.

The other notebooks had alternating designs on their page spreads, whether two or four variations, and this one (pictured above) has the same pages throughout. Gorgeous, but I’m exactly two weeks away from finishing the notebook I’ve been decorating myself, as it came with plain lined pages. I’ve found I do like the process of customizing the pages, but, if I put decorative tape on the same part of every page, then that adds bulk to that part of the page only, and the middles of the pages sort of cave in. That feels weird when I handle the book, and I don’t need that in my morning pages. Good experiment, glad I did it, but it doesn’t provide the same experience I want in this practice.

What I want in a morning pages book, is a book I can open, see the images already there, and pour out whatever has bubbled to the surface of my brain between waking and caffeine. Such books are out there, even though they may be buried in a sea of books with plain lined pages, and, thankfully, the hunt is part of the fun. It’s sort of like that when I have a focus for my reading, as I do now. That focus for reading is very similar to the focus for writing. Where there is focus, there is organization, and where there is organization, there is, oddly enough, liberty. When I know where the boundaries lie, I can go nuts within those boundaries.

This is one of the reasons I’m excited to greet a new week of writing historical romance. All I have to do is set my story before living memory (anybody here born before 1784? Anybody? Anybody? Bueller? No? Nobody? Going once, going twice…okay, cool. Before living memory, I’ve got.) and ensure that it has an optimistic and emotionally satisfying ending (aka Happily Ever After, or HEA, which, :consults outline and double checks against first draft: Yep, got that, too.) and I am good. I can do anything. An-y-thing.

Pretty exciting, that, and it definitely applies to Her Last First Kiss. This is one of those books that found me, while I was wandering about the metaphorical woods at night, oven mitts on my hands and buckets on my feet, in search of something that could be quickly written and marketable. Yeah, that’s not how things turned out. I wanted Hero to be somebody else entirely, but, thankfully, he didn’t listen to me, and now I have Hero. Heroine, too, looked at my plans for her, snort-laughed, and marched off in her own direction. The two of them found their own way to meet, and, by this time, I have learned that when the characters start mapping their own way through the wilderness, the most logical thing for me to do is to follow them.

Which leads me to today. The scene I’ll be writing was not in the original outline, and it was not in the original draft, but it roared to the surface during last week’s critique session, and has been poking me all through the weekend, when my brain was required for other things. Silly brain. don’t you know by now that the characters are going to make themselves known when and where they will? Today, instead of mucking my way through my imaginary friends sitting around a table and talking, I get to feel Hero’s throat go dry when Heroine shows up at the worst possible place, at the worst possible time, feel the mad flutter of her pulse, because this isn’t any easier for her than it is for him. At this point, it’s nononononononono, they do not want to be around each other, because if they felt the things they might be feeling, this is going to cause big trouble, not only for them, but for a mutual friend caught in the middle, who has no idea they are in the middle, and…:happy sigh: Yeah, I live for this stuff.

Reading the sort of historical romance that I like to write is helpful, even if not always easy, but story in, story out, is usually a good way to go. At some point, after I have my pages for the day written (or on a break in the middle) I’ll pet the spines of my TBR shelf and the still-boxed books from my friend’s visit, and something will come to the fore. If I show up, the books will, too. That’s my story. Pun intended.

 

Space and Light

annabowling Leave a comment

This weekend, our landlord brought in a new refrigerator, and replaced the overhead kitchen light fixture that had been out of whack for I’m not going to say how long. The good part about having working overhead lights in both office and kitchen is that now we can see what we’re doing. The bad thing about having working overhead lights in both office and kitchen is that now we can see what we are doing. This means that we can also see what we haven’t been doing, as in stuff we put over here “for now,” or “until we can see what we’re doing.” Well, now we can, annnnd…we need to do stuff. Thanks to some generous applications of joint compound on the mustard-yellow walls we all hate (Real Life Romance Hero doesn’t think they are that bad, but Housemate and I outvote him, plus I can whip out my knowledge of color theory. We have vintage 50s pink laminate countertop and backsplash. I have no idea why the then-owner chose emerald green linoleum, when the walls had been a gorgeous dusty rose. I loved that dusty rose so much that I made vociferous objections when we found the hideous new paint job on the day we arrived with all our worldly goods in tow.

It took four years and change, three different landlords, but the mustard-yellow is going. I vote for white. The joint compound is white already, and it looks all nice and airy and clean, especially right up against the white woodwork (though, if I had my druthers, I would strip the white from every inch of woodwork in the entire apartment and go for a dark wood stain, but I do not own this building, so that is not my call.) We don’t have a date for work to begin on the kitchen painting, but we are fully aware that this will mean a total tear-down of the setup we currently have. I am okay with that. I am also fully prepared to defend the original midcentury cabinets from the taint of a paintbrush. One would expect no less from a historical romance writer, am I right?

This is also a chance to get rid of things that no longer fit with who we are now, as individuals, or as a family. While doing dishes a couple of days ago, Housemate asked me why a trio of mugs are still here. We haven’t touched them in the entire four years we’ve lived in this apartment, and none of us like them. My only answer was “because we packed them when we moved.” Why do we have them though? I know two of them were free, and the other one kind of goes with them, as in it is a solid color that is contained within the color scheme of the other two, but that is not a reason to give them space in our home. That mug tree could, theoretically, bloom with nothing but Union Jack mugs, or black and white mugs. I would be fine with either.

It’s kind of like that with my TBR shelf as well. While I do not recommend scheduling both renovations and a visit from out of state friends-who-are-family on the same weekend, real friends don’t care if there is joint compound on the walls or a laundry basket on the dining room table. If they wanted to see perfectly appointed rooms, they know where the museum is. Real friends are perfectly happy to sit on the floor and eat takeout, because the reason they came is to spend time with their friends.  Everything else is window dressing, or lack of window dressing, as the case may be.

So, back to the TBR shelf. One of the great things about going to writers’ conferences is that they give you lots of free books to take home. One of the not-so-great things about writers’ conferences is that they give you lots of free books to take home. This is especially apparent when one lives in an apartment and has only so much shelf space. There comes a point where something Has To Be Done.  My point was Saturday night.

Aided by the new overhead light in my office, I went through the triple-stacked TBR bookshelf and culled. I was ruthless. Why do I have this book? Am I ever really going to read it? How long has it been on this shelf? Would somebody else appreciate this book more than I could? Book by book, I made my choices. Most books did stay, but I also had a respectable pile to pass along to my friends, which was a good thing. Said friends arrived with a banker’s box full of books tailored to my specific interests. Older historical romances, heavy on the medieval, second copies of some old favorites, so I can make them lending copies. That’s friendship in a box, right there. Looks like this:

booksfromMary

I have no idea how that frame got into the picture

When I took the lid off this box and peered inside, I felt…focused. Yes. This. This is why I write historical romance. This is what’s important. I’m probably going to leave these books in the box for a while, though I do have definite ideas on where most of them are going to go on my bookshelves. For now, I want them as they are. Full of potential. A reminder of why I put my butt in the chair and pen to paper/fingers on keyboard every weekday. I want to look at the spines, pet them, imagine and/or remember (some of the books, I have already read, some, I have not) and remember what it was like to not only first discover the world of historical romance (though, this time, I do not have to hide under the brass bed in the guest bedroom, with a flashlight, because I am big enough to pick out my own reading material.) but also that feeling of “I can totally do this.” That it’s in my blood and success is the only option. It’s a booster shot of confidence, exactly in time for the week N and I have agreed to up our production goals, so we can both reach The End that much faster. Coincidence? I don’t think so.

AnnaSelfieComment

← Back

Thank you for your response. ✨

Typing With Wet Claws: Rainy and Well-Lit Edition

annabowling Leave a comment

 

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Today, the weather is cool and rainy, which is Anty’s very favorite kind of weather for this time of year, so that makes her very happy. Our landlord, Mr. Dave, came by yesterday morning, and changed the light fixture in Anty’s office, which is to say that the light now works (he is very, very tall and did not need a ladder. That is impressive.) Anty says that having an overhead light is like having a whole new office. Maybe now she will see how ugly the carpet is and want to get rid of it. A kitty can hope.

There is more to say about Mr. Dave’s visit (hint: it will involve me being put in my room for a while, but more on that later) but, as always, first, I have to talk about where Anty went on the interwebs this week. As usual, she was at Buried Under Romance on Saturday. This week, she talked about having a book hangover (she had two of them.) That post is here and its link on the main page looks like this:

BURgrumpycathangover

That brings us to Anty’s reading for this week, and, because it is the first Feline Friday of the month, we get to check in on her historical romance reading challenge. In that, Anty did not do that great. She read three books this past week, which brought her to only three books behind her goal for the Goodreads challenge (go, Anty!) but none of them were historical romance. (Anty, I am disappointed. Go read a historical romance right now. Preferably with cats in it.) She read two YA novels and a nonfiction book:

I should note that I did not spell Miss Moira’s name exactly correctly, but it is very difficult to hit the right keys to make special letters when one has paws (and special paws, at that) instead of hands.  Anty is still thinking about her review of Even In Paradise, because it is inspired by one of her favorite books/favorite miniseries, Brideshead Revisited. That story is kind of historical, because it takes place long before Anty was born, and there is a love story in it (maybe two, depending on perspective) but it is not a romance, so there is no HEA. It is actually pretty sad, but the good kind of sad, the kind Anty likes, the same way she likes cool, rainy days. Please put a sticky note on that, because I am going to come back to it later, but if you want to keep up with Anty’s Goodreads challenge, it is here. Right now, it looks like this:

GRReadingchallengemay17

Even though Anty did not read any historical romances this week, reading more historical romance is still one of her goals, and I am keeping track of the historical romances she reads throughout the year.

hr-challenge-2016-badge

So far, this year, Anty has read twenty-seven books. Fifteen of those have been historical romance. That is preggy good, but I think she can do better. If I count The Wicked City, by Beatriz Williams, that makes sixteen historical romances, but only half of that book is historical. The other part takes place in the 1990s, which, while before my living memory, does not qualify as historical. This is one of the pitfalls of not letting cats be in charge of important things. Still, Anty is still at more than fifty percent historical romance for her reading this year, so we are going to call that good, but she still needs to get in a few more historicals, because she is riding the line here.  She may want to consider re-reading some old favorites, to establish a firmer foundation.

Writing has gone well this week. Anty wrote a new part of Her Last First Kiss for her critique session with Miss N, which worked very well. Both the scene and the session, actually. Even though this will be a very busy weekend, she will have part of her brain working out how the next scene is going to go, because she thinks she can put out more this coming week than she has been. I believe in Anty. She can do it. She has also been working with Anty Melva, to make Chasing Prints Charming even better, so that it will be the best it can be when some lucky publisher would like to see more.

Anty has also started looking down the road and scouting out how she might best like to approach making a story world that she would use for three to five books. This is a very new thing to her, so she is probably going to make some mistakes along the way. She is also going to find a few things that will work. One thing she did this week was to start a private Pinterest board that has pictures of characters she thinks she might like to have live in that story world. Then she looked at it for a long time, until the pictures started to make connections in her brain. This may not make sense to people who are not writers, but people who are writers probably understand this very well. This coming week, one of her jobs is to list motifs or elements she might like to have in that world. Then she will probably throw those things into a Scapple document and see what connections form all on their own. I will be watching from the hardwood before the carpet starts.

Not tomorrow, though, because Mr. Dave is coming back, with Mr. John, who fixes things. They are going to take out our refrigerator and put in a brand new one. I expect there will be a lot of loud bangy noises. I do not like loud bangy noises. Uncle will be there, though, so it will not be too bad, but I will require extra treats because I will have to be a brave girl, even though I will be scared (also under the bed, full disclosure.) Kind of like Anty feels, trying out this new thing. I think we will both be okay, but it might not hurt if Anty had some treats of her own. I recommend gummi bears.

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

skyebanner01

skyebye

 

Missed (Fictional) Connections

annabowling Leave a comment

I am a planner. I need to know where I am going, and how to get there, or I will spend an inordinate amount of time circling the metaphorical roundabout, looking for the on-ramp, until I run out of gas and abandon the car entirely and head off on foot. From there, I will probably wander the moors, my lantern held aloft in the whipping wind. In the distance, a wolf howls. In short, this never leads to anything good.

Especially not in the whole area of a sustainable writing career. Which means time to plan. Conventional wisdom, right now, at least as it applies to historical romance, is that the best chances of success (as in financial/sales/building reader loyalty) are with connected books; at least three books in the same story world, preferably five. The most marketable setting right now seems to be Regency England (not my cup of tea) followed by Victorian England (same; I suspect I was born without the nineteenth century gene) and :drumroll please: Georgian England. Georgian England, I can do.  Since I’ve already set my focus, for the time being, on eighteenth century romance, this gives me a place to start, and a foundation on which I can build.

My natural bent, and still my preference, after all these years, is still my first love, the standalone romance. One pair of lovers, one story, one HEA, wave them off into the sunset and then on to something else entirely. Basically, “Well, medieval France was nice :dust palms: I’m thinking…:drums fingers: Gilded Age New York next, and maybe pirates after that. Who’s with me?” That last bit might be best read in David Tennant’s Tenth Doctor voice. Go back and read it in that voice if you’d like. I’ll wait.

I also have a strong preference for selling books over not selling books, so this means it is an opportunity to learn new skills. Last night, I sat in my uncharacteristically quiet office, the window open, no music playing, only the sound of the rain on the street outside, and looked over some options. While I browsed blog archives by other, more successful, historical romance writers, I also poked around my private Pinterest boards regarding projects currently on the back burner. I opened the board I’d kept for my Regency crash-and-burn, and de-Regencied the whole thing in one go. Wiped out every single pin that pegged this story as taking place in that particular era, no exceptions, and, immediately, I felt…relief. Now, what about reimagining this story as a Georgian? Possibilities there. I think it could work. I’d have to move some things around, but the hero and heroine wouldn’t have too drastic changes, and their love story stays the same.

Which got me to thinking about other orphaned manuscripts, set aside at various stages. Would it be possible to take the most viable of those orphans and stick them in the same story world? Now that I’ve accidentally found out how to include pictures in Scapple, I can throw my various people on the same page, along with a bunch of things that inspire me in a more general sense, and start making connections.

This is new for me. Melva Michaelean and I have planned out two more books in the same world as Chasing Prints Charming, but this is the first time I’ll have taken on something like this on my own. It’s an adjustment, and a challenge. Can I make things work together? How are the characters going to fit together, when they’ve been in their own corners up until now? The only answer I have at present is that I will soon find out, and that I will likely surprise myself on more than one level. Thinking in terms of “and,” not “or” is a big help here. I can still write my standalone stories, and I am fully aware that those may be a tougher sell, or present a smaller return than linked books. I am fine with that. It’s a good balance.

The next step here is creating that world. Part of me thinks this could be fun and the other part already has a headache.  To bring this back full circle, I am a planner. I want to know what I’m doing while I figure out what I’m doing, and, at the same time, I want some of the connections to make themselves. That’s probably part of the whole flinging everybody on the same electronic whiteboard process. I already know I’m going to have more than one artistically inclined character, and probably more than one of the gents will wear or have worn regimentals at one time, but those are places where connections can start to form. Where they go from there, remains to be seen.

Last night, while poking around my desk, I found the bunch of index cards, pictured above, with chapter headings written on the top line of each card. I have no idea what project these were meant for, but rather fortuitous that they surfaced when they did. Maybe it’s a sign. What do you think?

AnnaSelfieComment

← Back

Thank you for your response. ✨