writing process

Unbalanced

annabowling 5 Comments

This week, Saturday was Sunday, Sunday was New Year’s Day, Monday was Saturday, Tuesday was Monday, Wednesday was Tuesday, though I’m writing its post on Thursday, and I could use another nap. Well, nap, period. In the words of Alice (of Wonderland, not Mel’s Diner) I haven’t had one, so how could I have another? The forecast says we may hit sixty-six degrees today. In northern NY. In February.  It’s kind of a mess.

I don’t like messes. My ideal weekend, in fact, would include cleaning and organizing my office. Maybe the dining room too, if I get really wild. I want to put things where they go, turn piles into files; that sort of thing. Yesterday, I kept forgetting what day it was, and exclaimed, “oh, puppies!” when I saw a picture of otters. It’s probably a good thing I am not a veterinarian, if I can’t tell the difference between otters and puppies, and definitely a sign that I need one of those nap things. Also, to get out of the house and be around people who do not share my mailing address. My people meter is low.

Tomorrow, Real Life Romance Hero starts a new job, so Friday will, hopefully, look like a normal Friday.  I could use the routine. Today is part Wednesday, a little Tuesday, definitely Thursday, and my writing/critting commitments for the day take me through past, present and future. This is enough to make me throw up my hands and retreat to a blanket fort, but that would probably be too hot at sixty-six degrees, so blanket fort is not a viable option, even if the blanket fort does have Netflix.

Because Sunday was New Year’s Day, it wasn’t a writing day, or writing prep day, and that made Monday a grumbly, frantically preparing pages for Tuesday morning critique day. Which ended up being moot, because the one time N doesn’t check her email, so she doesn’t see my message, asking if she could please print my pages, because the family car is committed to RLRH’s job interview (this is the job he starts Friday) and I still can’t find what’s jamming the printer that is right next to my desk, so this means there is still a part of Tuesday out there, ready to pop out at me at some yet to be determined time, after N has had a chance to read and comment on said pages.

Tuesday night, which my brain remembers as Monday, even though I know it was Tuesday, I didn’t watch This Is Us, which I love, because I was working on Her Last First Kiss, and, while part of the reason I stayed at the keyboard instead of shambling off to the living room was that I wanted to stay with the story (because N’s comments, when she had me talk to her about the new scene, even though the pages were cozy in her inbox, got me going and I wanted to capture them) another part of it was that my brain was too flat out tired to switch from writing mode to watching TV mode.

Right now, I have a cable knit blanket in my lap, not because I am cold (though I am sitting directly under a ceiling fan) but because I feel more comfortable with something on me, and also because it’s normal. This has not been a normal week. This week also brought the passing of a cousin I hadn’t seen in quite some time, though we had recently reconnected on FB, as well as renewing acquaintances with two other cousins. One of them now lives in the same city where I attended college for two years, and where I met RLRH. Small world.

Today’s task list is a mishmash of things from other days, shuffled around, grafted in and cobbled together. As much as I like making order out of chaos, this feels like a lot of chaos. This is where Anne Lamott’s famous one inch picture frames come into use, as well as Barbara Samuel’s “in this moment,” writing prompt. What do I need to do right now? Do that. Everything else can wait its turn. Right now, it’s this blog entry. After that, tea.

Technically, slipping out to the coffee house this afternoon is actually last Friday, in case my personal timeline wasn’t spiraled enough, but I know there will be tea and I will plug in my earbuds and open a notebook or turn on my laptop, and, as a once upon a time writing group facilitator often said, the practice begets the product. Her rule was that, once our pens hit the pages, they had to keep moving until she called time. It didn’t matter what we wrote on those pages, only that we kept the pens moving. Our brains knew how to write, and, they know that’s what happens when pen is on paper.

There have been many times this week, when I didn’t know what day it was, or 5PM felt like 10PM, 2AM felt like 6AM and 9PM at the same time, but the one thing that has remained a constant is the writing. Hero and Heroine, Girl and Guy, know what they’re doing, where they’re going, and how they’re going to get there. Think I’ll let them drive.

 

 

What if I Fall?

annabowling 5 Comments

This week, N and Mr. N picked me up for the weekly critique session, so I wouldn’t have to tromp through the arctic tundra of the park, and risk bodily harm in the ice and snow. Good people, those Ns, but what actually happens? I twist my ankle on my way from microwave (occupational hazard of extroversion; food goes cold while blabbering, and needs to be reheated) to seat. I do not remember exactly what happened, but apparently, I was airborne for a second there.

I do remember my bagel getting some serious air and landing, thankfully, on the table, so no bagels were harmed, but my ankle is another story. My favorite Panera worker rushed over to make sure I was okay and had not hit my face on the table. I had not. I remembered enough to remove my boot in case of swelling (I saw none at the time, Housemate said there was some, when she got home that afternoon) and ask Panera Worker for an ice pack. Panera worker dashed into the back and returned with an impressive bag of ice, and the admission that they live with a nurse, so they know how to make these things. I propped my foot on an empty chair, plopped the ice bag atop it, and returned to bagel preparation. This particular ankle has been noodley since I was but a wee little princess, so this honestly was no big deal for me. Had worse, had wrap for ankle at home, had crutches if needed, I’m there, N is there, we have pages, let’s do this.

Since N and I have been doing this critique thing with each other for a while now, it’s no surprise that we’ve picked up on patterns in each other’s work. The word, “more,” comes up a lot. In Her Last First Kiss, Hero is an artist, and N and Mr. N are both artists, and one of Hero’s preferred mediums is one of Mr. N’s preferred mediums -I did not plan that, it happened that way, as such things sometimes do- so this is an extremely useful connection. In this scene, Hero is one gobsmacked fellow, unprepared for encountering Heroine for the first time, especially in the place and context, and he’s knocked off his axis by the experience.

N marked this passage as one of my “more” places. Hero needed to see more. Sure, it’s nice that Heroine has symmetrical features, but it’s more than that. Her hair isn’t  only “brown,” but sienna and umber and the color a perfect cup of tea is before the milk goes in, and he doesn’t have all his paints with him, but he’s in London, so he’ll have to go buy them and he doesn’t have a painting room here yet and uh, what did the other people in the room just ask him? He wasn’t really listening. Oh crud, she looks impatient. How long was he off in art world? Stuff like that.

This is good. This is stuff I need to know, to bring Hero and Heroine’s story and their world to life on the page. It’s also scary. That lush detail stuff is what I love in historical romance. 1784 people are not 2017 people. They have a whole different frame of reference. Hero is always going to see in terms of lines first and then colors. Heroine is always going to want to make order out of chaos (and Hero is pretty much a whole lot of tall, ginger, misunderstood chaos on two legs) so that’s always going to affect the choices they make, and the windows through which they observe, and participate in, their world. This is why I go for emotionally complex historical romance over, say, funny contemporary (which is a whole other skill set.)

At the same time, it requires silencing (or at least muting) years of “whittle it down” and “make it simple” and “fast, fast, fast” and other commonly heard pieces of writing advice, some of which are not as well suited for this kind of story. There is no writing cabal that has hard and fast compulsories on this kind of things. To put it in terms Hero can understand, I get to color with all the crayons in the box. The good thing about that is that the combinations are endless; I can dive in, go nuts, put hot pink next to red-orange and scribble gray on top of the whole thing. I can work it so that the difference between blue-green and green-blue makes total sense, throw a neon in with a pastel if that’s what the particular picture needs.

The scary thing about that is also that I can go nuts. More combinations means more combinations that could go wrong, and what if “they” don’t like it? Oh, but, what if they do? Ships in harbors and all that rot. I’d rather take the chance than be safe. As Critique Partner Vicki once said, “intentionally go too far.” It’s easier to take out than to put in, very much so. So that’s what I’m doing now. Making notes on where I can do that whole “more” thing, and then moving along as though I had already made those changes. I’ll get those on the next pass. My goal is to get this book out in the world, on an editor/publisher’s desk, or on the road to indie release, before December.

Am I going to fall somewhere on that road? Yes. That’s not what matters. What matters is that I get back up, ice that twisted extremity, and dive in as deeply into the characters and their world as I possibly can. Kind of appropriate that my ankle twisted before the critique session began, in that regard. By the time Mr. N came to collect us, I was ready to see if I could put weight on my ankle (I could) and Panera Worker came back by our table with a big smile and a free pastry ring, to make the day better. I’m pretty sure not all rewards of keeping on keeping on in this writing game come with cream cheese and cherry filling, but, sometimes, they do.

pastry-ring

And (Not Or)

annabowling Leave a comment

It’s happening again. Monday, that is. It really shouldn’t feel like a surprise, as Mondays happen every week. That’s how it goes: Saturday, Sunday, Monday. It’s kind of a thing. I’m writing this blog entry because that is the top thing on my task list for today, and the plan is to get the things I know I can get done, done first, so that I have the bulk of  my time to work on the stuff that’s going to need more attention. In this case, the writing of actual fiction. Today, I need to get the second draft of the scene in Her Last First Kiss, where Hero and Heroine meet for the first time, ready for my meeting with N tomorrow morning.

Over the weekend, I’d had a plan to get current on my rest (sleep has not been that great recently) and relax by reading (did some of that) playing Sims (did some of that) and organizing: making the part of my office that doesn’t show in my deskscapes look less like the wake of a tornado and more like a working office, sync all my paper calendars/planners so that they all have the same information, and leave room for tracking my writing output (I kind of did some of that. At least all my RWA chapter meetings are now listed on my office calendar.) All of those partial things were on Saturday. Sunday, however, turned into a family day. I am not complaining. I love my family; they are weird and have a lot of variables, and, at one point, we all ended up eating honey barbecue boneless wings in the living room (no, that is not correct, as Housemate was in her room, decompressing from her own weekend) and anything that ends in honey barbecue boneless wings can’t be all that bad, really. So, no, not complaining, but….

There’s always a but. The part of me that is forever an eight-year-old boy now snickers because but sounds like butt, and he is not wrong. Only one t, though (mmm, tea….) and here’s the thing: those buts can change everything. (One t, inner eight-year-old boy. One t.) Because I love to plan, and I get antsy if I don’t know what’s coming next, and because I am making progress in not one, but two novels, with a goal of being able to pitch either or both at the NECRWA conference this year, I need to know what’s going to happen after those books are done. With Beach Ball, it’s easy; Melva and I have already sketched out two more collaborative stories, and we look forward to writing those.

When it comes to straight-on historical romance, though, I am on my own. Since I’ve already talked about choosing a focus for this phase of the game, here and here, that gives me a general direction :salute: of where that “what’s next” is going to go. As my Aunt S often said, writing is a business, and, in the current market, linked books are the big sellers. Okay, then, I would like to be a big seller. I get the logic behind this, and I like a challenge. Trouble is, that my brain does not  naturally think in series format (unless we’re talking multigenerational, but that’s a whole other story, pun intended, and we will deal with that later.) Hello, my name is Anna, and I am a unicorn; that rare romance writer/reader who honestly does prefer standalone stories. That’s how my brain works, so consciously building a linked story world is a challenge.

How do I face challenges? With organization. My plan for part of the weekend was to boot Scapple and slap down a bunch of things I love about eighteenth century romance; character types, locations, different eras within the era, names, tropes, etc, then see what connections my brain wanted to make. Not hard and fast, mind you, only something to get the wheels started turning. I have become a big proponent of “this book, now” – as in get this current draft done, and then we can think about what comes next, because I really do have to know what comes next, the same as I really do have to have pretty paper. That’s not  bad thing, to know what tools one needs to do the job, and I will still make time later in the week to get that particular ball rolling in that particular direction.

I’m grumbly that I didn’t get to do that when I wanted to do it, but that doesn’t mean I missed my chance forever :flings overly dramatic arm over brow and swoons on fainting couch: As I learned when I took the leap of playing with the Beach Ball with Melva, new things don’t mean I can’t do the other thing. Co-writing a modern day (but historical-adjacent) story doesn’t mean I can’t write historicals anymore, and planning out a linked story world doesn’t mean I have to bury my beloved standalones in the cold, cold ground and wander the moors forever mourning my one true passion. It’s and, not or. I can do more than one thing without cancelling out that original thing.

How to wrangle it all into submission (pun unintended, but I will let it stand) – that’s another matter, and I’ll figure it out along the way. For now, time to make some tea and hunker down in century eighteen for the day.

As If

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Sometimes, it’s good to be a little uncomfortable. Right now, I’m sitting in my office, in front of the desktop, open notebooks at hand, with pencilled notes. There’s a nearly-empty travel mug in front of me. I have my ears pricked for the on and off (mostly off now, I think) rain outside my window. The numbers at the bottom of my screen tell me it won’t be long until Housemate and Real Life Romance Hero return home, so my time for uninterrupted (at least by others) is ticking down to its limit for the day. What I would like to do is take a nap.
One of the best things about working from home is that one can go to work in pajamas. One of the worst things about working from home is that one can go to work in pajamas. Today, I hit the  intersection of too tired and too comfy, so I got out of the chair, swapped leggings for jeans (aka leg prison) put on makeup and everyday jewelry (one skeleton hand ring, one skull ring, earrings are also skull themed today. I love skulls.) In a few minutes, I will give in to the urge to make tea. I don’t want tea right now, but I will in a while, so acting in anticipation is probably in my best interest at the moment.
I have two notebooks, one Molieskine Volant (sage green) and one Moleskine Cahier (black,) both bearing aforementioned pencilled notes. Said notes are for transcription, and that’s my plan for the day. My body says “nap.” My brain says “write.” Since the brain controls the body, I think (pun unintended, but we’ll go with it) and there is no “handwritten novels in note form” section at either Barnes and Noble or on Amazon, it is in my very best interests to push through the afternoon slump and Get Stuff Done. Hence the actual clothing and ritual of what my mother would have called putting on my face.
Last night, my brain too pooped to do anything productive, I spent some time browsing beauty sites and researching cosmetic items I might like to add to my stash.  On one such baord, I found a thread on colorful eye makeup. Several of the posts spoke of using colors that came in pallettes, but don’t get much use. Since it was late and I was tired, I thought, hey, that might be fun. I have green eyes. I don’t usually use green shadow, because, well, green eyes.  I have green shadows, though; they came in a pallette I recieved as a Christmas gift, but I don’t normally use them. Since I’d put on actual pants precisely for the discomfort factor, why the heck not? So I did. I have green eyelids, a different shade of green on my browbone, a bit of green on the lower lid/lashline as well. The world did not end.
What did end was the mindset of still being in my pajamas and not actually being at work. Dressed and made up and with a spritz of some vintage Chanel #19 (a long-ago gift from a favorite aunt no longer with us) that’s not lounging arround the house wear. I’m sure my imaginary friends appreciate the effort; we’ll see about that, because I’m dropping by to see them as soon as I’m finished with this entry. It says so right in my daily task list, so that’s what’s going to happen.
This post is turning out to be exactly what I didn’t want it to be; I feel like I’ve done a thousand versions of the whole left foot, right foot thing. That’s not bad, exactly. There’s a place for that, but what it gets swirling around my mind is that there’s another ingredient to the whole creativity thing, and that’s the love. Not only because I write romance (though that certainly helps with matters; I’ve been crazy in love with romance novels since I was eleven, and with love stories long before then) but the love of the work.

Today, when I wrote my morning pages, I wrote about acting as if; as if I had complete assurance these books were going to find good homes. Acting as if the market were a sure thing. Acting as if there were a whole bunch of readers waiting for these particular stories, eager to meet Hero and Heroine, Girl and Guy, in the flesh…er, page. There’s a little bit of pressure in that, but also a whole lot of purpose. If I’m only telling stories for my own amusement, well, I know how they’re going to turn out, as they’re in my own head. Why decipher the stuff I wrote in mechanical pencil, at however many mph along the highway, or, also in mechanical pencil, wedged into the tiny haven of space between the tall dresser in the dining room (old house, have to be creative with furniture placement) and Housemate’s bedroom door, while pretty much everybody involved in the transfer of power, as it were, from current landlady to incoming landlord-and-lady?

Writing romance is my happy place. When the whole apartment is swarming with people with clipboards and cameras and turning on faucets and light switches and checking I-don’t-know-what, there’s the pencil and the page, and whoosh. I’m not wedged between door and dresser at all, but surveying the common room of an eighteenth century inn, getting a bead on the crowd and figuring out how hard it’s going to be for Hero to get a room for the night (or at least bed space) by dint of his charm alone. Even in Century Eighteen, leaving the house without one’s wallet (or period appropriate equivalent) has the same consequences it has now. Thankfully, Hero is a resourceful gent. He’ll be fine…eventually. first, I have to walk him straight into the last person he wants to see right now, shake up his worldview, and make him do the thing he cannot do. That’s how it works in these stories.

That’s how it works with writing, too. If I leave these notes as notes, they’re fine the way they are…but they can’t go out in public. There’s only one copy of them, it’s all in pencil, and it’s on paper. It’s in my handwriting, which is not always readable to all. There have been times Real Life Romance Hero has asked me to print notes to him, instead of writing them in cursive, and if he can’t read my handwriting, I am not going to inflict that on others. So, the transcription. The whipping of the story into shape from bullet points to prose, from present to past tense, the ordering of things that have arrows and parentheses and odd boxes with curlicues at the corners. Only then are they ready for other eyes. This process, too, has its tricks, its own colors that came with the usual suspects, that are waiting for a chance to show what they can do if I think outside the box. Looking at it that way, it’s a lot less scary, and a lot more fun.

 

 

Pilgrimage

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Yesterday, my Beach Ball collaborator, Melva, and I made our meant-to-be-monthly pilgrimage to the NECRWA chapter meeting. The topic this month, appropriately enough for January, was beginnings. I did not take  any notes during the presentation, because I spent the entire time working on notes for the Beach Ball, in the detachable pages of my all purpose Moleskine, with my newest favorite and now indispensable tool, a mechanical pencil. Melva and I talked out a couple of scenes we didn’t fully have a handle on, on our own, but when we put our heads together, boom, there they were. So, I wrote stuff.

Melva and I agreed that we both do our best work on the Beach Ball on these drives, two hours there and two hours back. We both talk fast, ideas pinging off each other like the silver ball in a pinball machines, flashing lights and bells going off all around us. She drives. I write notes on what we create, together, transcribe them when I get home, and I send the neat, orderly pages her way.

The pages I write in the passenger seat are not neat or orderly. they are a swath of bullet points, scrawled in mechanical pencil, with smudges from erasures and the odd eraser crumb wherever it falls. I have only recently discovered the joy of mechanical pencil. When I use pencil, I can erase instead of cross out, which means I don’t have to lose any space when something better comes along. Yesterday, I ran out of lead before we ran out of road. I could go on with some other writing implement, but I couldn’t reach my tote with my seatbelt still in place.

Melva said there might be some pencils in her purse. My left hand curled nervously around the red Bic Cristal I keep in my raincoat pocket for dire emergencies such as this one. I hadn’t wanted to use ballpoint in this particular Moleskine, my first ever 8×5 Volant, moss colored cover, perforated pages, so that I could write on any project on the go, take out those pages, and transcribe/file them where they actually go, but we were on a roll, and I didn’t want to break the flow.

Thankfully, Melva was right. She did have pencils. The first, I snapped the lead three or four times, as I put pencil to paper, but then I changed to the other. Cue choir of angels. Melva informed me that said pencil was school issue (she is a college professor) and not sold to civilians. Figures. I will purchase others.

We covered a lot of ground on this trip, both literally and figuratively. We joked that we should rent an RV, drive to California, from NY, where I live, or MA, where she lives, and by the time we reach the other coast, we’ll have a first draft done. Then we’d turn around and revise on the way back. Either that, or we drive around in big circles until we have a book. What matters is that we filled  a bunch of pages on this trip. Today, those pages rest.

Today, I write on Her Last First Kiss, a scene that was not in the original draft, but makes narrative sense. Maybe more importantly than that, it will be fun. I hope it will be fun. It’s got Hero, it takes place in a sort of setting I always find fun to write, and I know N is expecting that puppy, so I had better get it written today, but that doesn’t mean there has to be pressure.

What it does mean is that I unplug, settle in with open notebook and take pencil or pen and word-doodle. No, that’s not right. Story-doodle. I’m doodling story, even though I use words to do it (using interpretive dance would require rearranging the furniture and possibly obtaining proper footwear.) I need to make a few wrong turns, double back, get the lay of the land, before I can finalize my map and then follow it to my destination. There may be a few side trips and loop-de-loops while I get my bearings, make sure this scene feels/sounds like Hero, not some random placeholder character. I definitely don’t want him sounding like Guy, who made himself very much at home in my head for most of yesterday. I think that makes my brain their time share, but I am fine with that.

 

 

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Uncle’s Paws Edition

annabowling 2 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Anty says I have my worried/hopeful look in this week’s picture, and she is right. She is very smart, and, also, she knows me. Mainly, I was worried/hopeful that there were two people in the hallway with me, so maybe one of them might feed me (one of them did, so you can relax. I thank you for your support.) but also, it has been a very full week over here, at home as well as with Anty’s writing.

Since the deal is that I have to talk to you about where you can read Anty’s posts (other than here, of course) before I can talk about anything else, I had better do that right away. As always, Anty posted on Buried Under Romance. This week, she talked about the many jobs that a first book in a new series has to accomplish, and also, what exactly constitutes a first book.  You can read the post here, and it looks like this:

burfeelslikethefirsttime

 

Anty posted a little bit on Goodreads this week, about  Mogul, by Joanna Shupe, from the Knickerbocker club series. It is only a little bit, because Anty wrote a lot more in the post she wrote for Heroes and Heartbreakers about that book, but that post is not live yet, so I cannot share that link until it is. In the meantime, her post on Goodreads is  here, and it looks like this (which is pretty much the whole thing; actually, it is the whole thing. Her post on Heroes and Heartbreakers is a lot bigger.)

acbreviewmogul

Speaking of Heroes and Heartbreakers, that is where Anty had two posts this week, and both of them are about books she really, really liked, which means she is on track with her goal of posting about more books there, this year. First, she posted about how much she liked Lawrence, the hero of The Lawyer’s Luck, by Piper Huguley. Anty (and I) talked some about that book last week, but, now, you can read the post here. It looks like this:

handhbookboyfriendlawrence

 

Anty  also talked about some of  her favorite Highland romances (she has quite a few, so picking only a few was really, really hard.) That post is here, and it looks like this:

handhessentialhighlanders

 

Okay. Now that I have that out of the way, it is time for the rest of the post. While Anty had some really good plans about working on scenes from both books, those plans got carried over, because this was one of those weeks where real life stepped in. This week, my Uncle had hurty front paws. There is a big word name for this kind of hurty paws, but I am a kitty, and do not always remember big human words, so I will say “hurty paws” instead, because that is basically what it was. Uncle’s paws got very big and turned colors that people paws are not supposed to turn. He made a lot of loud sounds, and nobody got a lot of sleep. Except me, because I am a kitty and need to have rest so I can fulfill my duties as a mews. It’s a cat thing.

On Wednesday, Anty went with Uncle, to the people vet. He was supposed to see his regular people vet, but his paws were so hurty that they decided to go to the right-now people vet instead. Which turned out to be a good call, because it turned out Uncle had another kind of hurt on top of the first kind of hurt, but the people vets there took good care of him. He had to have a shot, and some pills, but no cone of shame, and now he can use his paws again. Anty had to be his paws for a little while there (that is the “in sickness and in health” part of the wedding vows) but, thanks to the doctors and pharmacists, he has his paws back now. That is a good thing. Now he can pet me and feed me again, so that is a happy ending for all of us.

Now, it is the part where I bring things back around to writing. Most people do not like going to the people vet, especially not  the right-now people vet, and it can be harder to watch somebody we love be in pain that we can’t stop, more than it would be to have the pain ourselves. Anty read most of a whole book (it was Mogul) while she and Uncle waited for the people vets to help him, and, even though she did not get to do as much fiction writing as she wanted this week, she did get a reminder of how important it is for romance novels to show this kind of love, as well as all the nicer parts.

Anty likes to write about the kind of love that will go through some hard tests, where one person sees the other in pain that they can’t stop, but, if they can’t stop it, will go through it with them instead, and come out the other side okay. Not perfect, but together, because that is what matters most. Maybe that is not the best way to explain it, but human love is a complicated thing, and that is one of the big reasons Anty likes to write and read romance. Even if she did not fill as many pages as she would have liked  this week, Uncle is better, and Anty has that extra fuel to go into both books and remember the feelings that make her want to write romance in the first place. Also, there is me. I am on mews duty 24/7.

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

skyebye

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

 

Some Days are Like That

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Greatest hits picture today, because the deskscape I snapped is apparently taking the scenic route to my desktop, which is only fitting. Yesterday, Merman and I spent a big chunk of the day in the Emergency Room at Albany Med. He’s fine now, and back at work. Yay for modern medicine. Yay also for me, because I used the waiting time to read through an EARC (Electronic Advance Reading Copy) in preparation for an upcoming post on Heroes and Heartbreakers. While I was out, another post, on five (okay, really six) of my favorite Highlander heroes and the heroines who love them, went live there. I’ll leave the screenshot to Skye.

I almost left the whole post for Skye, figuring I could skip the midweek post and then post again on Saturday, but I get edgy when I don’t post on time, and one day’s delay is about all I can handle when I’m already punchy. I don’t like drawing arrows next to tasks in my planner, meaning I have to carry them over from the day I’d intended to carry them out, to the next day, because…well, because of a lot of reasons. I’m tired. I don’t know all I need to know to write that part (this happens a lot) or there are not enough hours in the day to get everything done (also a big one) or something unexpected occurs, like a trip to the ER.

These things are going to happen. After Merman and I were sprung from the ER, we still had to visit the pharmacy. After that, we needed to eat (which ended up him eating, and me sulking over a cup of tea because the counter person did not include the cream cheese with my bagel, and if I have to go back and ask for it when I’m already in a hideous mood, no thank you) and wait for Housemate to come retrieve our tired selves. After that was a trip to the grocery store, because we would need food that evening. Obtain food, head home, do not remove coat, but haul two loads of laundry at once to the laundromat. Attempt to smush both loads into one machine because brain is now on auto pilot.

Realize this will only lead to frustration. Scoop dirty laundry back into overstuffed basket. Kick said overstuffed basket along the floor to the big machines at the back. Get laundry going. Purchase carbonated beverage from vending machine for much needed caffeine boost. Take one sip and realize that carbonated beverage is past expiration date. Put on best disgusty face and empty said expired carbonated beverage into the bushes (sorry, bushes) and lean against dryer in hopes heat from dryer will soothe aching back muscles. Promise to apologize to family for any scorched clothing from said drying process. Open Kindle and remind self that book one is currently reading is indeed written in one’s first language because words are getting swimmy and one has forgotten how to brain.

Wash, dry, fold, haul laundry back home, in the rain, and collapse into comfy chair while other family member prepares food. Acknowledge that no, scenes did not get written today. That stinks. On the other hand, spouse on the mend. I’ll focus on that. The scenes will be there tomorrow.

Technically, one of them already is (the benefits of writing in longhand) but what I wanted to do was to get it onto the screen, so I would have it ready to show N (at the meeting I had to postpone for another day because I was bone-weeping tired) and get her feedback, while I got to look over her pages. That will still happen, on another day, after I have slept away the bone-weeping tiredness and refilled the well, so that I can turn bullet points into prose. Still, I would have liked for it to have been today.

The day wasn’t a total loss. I wrote a post for Heroes and Heartbreakers, and sent that in, one of those posts that looks the same on the screen as it did in my head, so I consider that a success. Anything I can write that sounds like me, that sounds like I wanted it to sound, gives the feeling that I wanted to give, that’s all right. Even when life gets chaotic, if I can do that, I did well. These days are going to happen, both the chaos days and the readjusting days. The writing will be there. So will I. Read a book, take a nap, play some Sims, have some tea, look over some notes, and pick up the pen.

Why Historical Romance?

annabowling 2 Comments

Hi. My name is Anna, and I write historical and historical-adjacent romance. We’ll get to the adjacent part in a minute. Right now, I want to focus on the big picture. Why historical romance? My first instinct is that I was hardwired that way. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t drawn to times before living memory, though I will grant that, when one is five or so, everything falls into that category, by default. As for the romance part of things, I think I was hardwired for that, as well, because my favorite stories were always the fairy tales with a romance plot to them, even long before I had any inkling that the opposite sex could be anything even remotely close to appealing. I also preferred the more arguably obscure fairy tales, like “Donkeyskin” to any of the Disney versions (Sorry, Walt) and checked out an entire spectrum of Andrew Lang’s fairy tale collections (and wee princess me is now all, “hold on, there are more beyond the color-themed books? I must have them!” because, of course, I must.)

Though I didn’t know the concept of shipping back then, (again, five) in retrospect, I shipped Greek, Roman and Norse gods and goddesses, cartoon characters, and couples in fairy tales and folklore. I’ve often wondered if my birth mother liked romance fiction, too, if, maybe, we’ve ever read and loved any of the same books. I wouldn’t be surprised. Maybe romance, and storytelling, really is in my blood. I’ve written before about how much fun it is to listen to SF/F fans and writers talk about how they fell in love with their genre of choice, hear their origin stories, as it were, and I would love to shine more light on that same experience with readers and writers of romance, particularly historical. Let’s face it, historical romance rocks.

In the same book, we get a peek into the past, the chance to step into a world that we know existed (because, duh, history; we’ve got proof) and a story literally as old as time, and we know that there’s going to be a happily ever after at the end (or a happy for now, in serialized works) but the big question is…how? We know things weren’t as easy for those in the past as they are now; indoor plumbing is a relatively recent invention, and modern medical advances keep a lot of us on the right side of the dirt. That’s not even taking into account things like the internet, gummi bears, and Sephora. I love all of those things, and I’m glad I have them in my life, but when I’m going to dive into story world, nothing is ever going to do it the way historical romance does.

Whether or not actual historical figures come into play, the historical world is critical to the historical romance. How does the time in which these lovers lived affect their falling in love, and their chances for a future together? For my money, it’s not possible to take a couple from Ancient Rome, for example, plop them down in 1901 Texas, and have their love story play out exactly the same way. It can’t. The pieces of the puzzle are completely different, and yet, the objective is the same; finding that one person with whom they want to spend the rest of their lives and then making that happen, no matter what obstacles stand in their way. I’d be hard pressed to find a type of story I find more empowering than that. I can’t even count all the possible variations of setting, era, character type, plot trope, and a million other variables, all of which can be combined in countless ways. It really never is the same story twice.

Right now, those of us in the US, and elsewhere, but I’m in the US, so that’s where I can speak with most authenticity, live in interesting times. Since current events do affect writing and reading trends, I have asked myself if we’re headed for a surge in historical romance. A break from modern life may be exactly what some of us need to restore our resources, live a few adventures and come back, entertained and empowered, to handle the business of day to day life. Which, I should mention, is exactly what the heroes and heroines of historical romances are doing. They don’t know they’re in a historical; they think they’re in a contemporary, because Restoration England, or the American Civil War, Harlem Renaissance, etc? Those are their nows. They don’t know how their current events are going to turn out, if the war is going to go their way, if life will ever be the same again after disease or disaster upsets the routine they’ve always known up to that point. What they do know, however?

They do know love. They know, by the end of the book, that, whatever life throws at them from here on out, they won’t be facing it alone. They have someone by their side who is going to take them exactly as they are, for better and for worse, and they’re going to face it together. That sounds like a pretty good deal to me, and that’s why I do what I do.

Why Historical Romance?

annabowling Leave a comment

Hi. My name is Anna, and I write historical and historical-adjacent romance. We’ll get to the adjacent part in a minute. Right now, I want to focus on the big picture. Why historical romance? My first instinct is that I was hardwired that way. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t drawn to times before living memory, though I will grant that, when one is five or so, everything falls into that category, by default. As for the romance part of things, I think I was hardwired for that, as well, because my favorite stories were always the fairy tales with a romance plot to them, even long before I had any inkling that the opposite sex could be anything even remotely close to appealing. I also preferred the more arguably obscure fairy tales, like “Donkeyskin” to any of the Disney versions (Sorry, Walt) and checked out an entire spectrum of Andrew Lang’s fairy tale collections (and wee princess me is now all, “hold on, there are more beyond the color-themed books? I must have them!” because, of course, I must.)

Though I didn’t know the concept of shipping back then, (again, five) in retrospect, I shipped Greek, Roman and Norse gods and goddesses, cartoon characters, and couples in fairy tales and folklore. I’ve often wondered if my birth mother liked romance fiction, too, if, maybe, we’ve ever read and loved any of the same books. I wouldn’t be surprised. Maybe romance, and storytelling, really is in my blood. I’ve written before about how much fun it is to listen to SF/F fans and writers talk about how they fell in love with their genre of choice, hear their origin stories, as it were, and I would love to shine more light on that same experience with readers and writers of romance, particularly historical. Let’s face it, historical romance rocks.

In the same book, we get a peek into the past, the chance to step into a world that we know existed (because, duh, history; we’ve got proof) and a story literally as old as time, and we know that there’s going to be a happily ever after at the end (or a happy for now, in serialized works) but the big question is…how? We know things weren’t as easy for those in the past as they are now; indoor plumbing is a relatively recent invention, and modern medical advances keep a lot of us on the right side of the dirt. That’s not even taking into account things like the internet, gummi bears, and Sephora. I love all of those things, and I’m glad I have them in my life, but when I’m going to dive into story world, nothing is ever going to do it the way historical romance does.

Whether or not actual historical figures come into play, the historical world is critical to the historical romance. How does the time in which these lovers lived affect their falling in love, and their chances for a future together? For my money, it’s not possible to take a couple from Ancient Rome, for example, plop them down in 1901 Texas, and have their love story play out exactly the same way. It can’t. The pieces of the puzzle are completely different, and yet, the objective is the same; finding that one person with whom they want to spend the rest of their lives and then making that happen, no matter what obstacles stand in their way. I’d be hard pressed to find a type of story I find more empowering than that. I can’t even count all the possible variations of setting, era, character type, plot trope, and a million other variables, all of which can be combined in countless ways. It really never is the same story twice.

Right now, those of us in the US, and elsewhere, but I’m in the US, so that’s where I can speak with most authenticity, live in interesting times. Since current events do affect writing and reading trends, I have asked myself if we’re headed for a surge in historical romance. A break from modern life may be exactly what some of us need to restore our resources, live a few adventures and come back, entertained and empowered, to handle the business of day to day life. Which, I should mention, is exactly what the heroes and heroines of historical romances are doing. They don’t know they’re in a historical; they think they’re in a contemporary, because Restoration England, or the American Civil War, Harlem Renaissance, etc? Those are their nows. They don’t know how their current events are going to turn out, if the war is going to go their way, if life will ever be the same again after disease or disaster upsets the routine they’ve always known up to that point. What they do know, however?

They do know love. They know, by the end of the book, that, whatever life throws at them from here on out, they won’t be facing it alone. They have someone by their side who is going to take them exactly as they are, for better and for worse, and they’re going to face it together. That sounds like a pretty good deal to me, and that’s why I do what I do.

Cold Day and Another Week Begun

annabowling Leave a comment

Second week of 2017 underway over here. Well, underway everywhere, but I can only talk about my own experience. This was a full weekend, with volunteer training, domestic warrior queen duties, one of which reminded me why I do not do laundry on Sunday evenings. The alternative to Sunday evening laundry, in this case, was naked family. Since we live in New York, and it is January, outdoor nudity is not an option, so Sunday night laundry it was. I had my phone and my Kindle, and a couple of hours, more or less, to let my brain get things somewhat in order for the week ahead.

On Saturday, I had my (first) fierce cheerleading session with Eryka Peskin, which I would highly recommend. It’s kind of weird to have an appointment where the entire purpose is to have someone tell one how awesome one is and point out what one is doing right, and it’s kind of weird that it’s kind of weird. Yes, I did take notes, and yes, I did post them on the back of my office door, where I can see them any time I need a reminder. If I write something down longhand, it’s much  more likely to stay in my noggin than if I try to remember without, or if I go directly to keyboard. I’ve been learning a lot more, lately, about how my brain works, and how going with that, rather than fighting it, is going to work better for me in the long (and short) term.

This morning, I got up at six, which is about right for me, still wiped from the weekend -I’d intended to use it to rest, but that is not what happened- and determined to get the most out of my day. There’s a ticking clock on one important task, that of my Her Last First Kiss second draft, the scene where Hero and his brother…well, we’ll save that for later. What matters is that I need to show these pages to N at 8AM tomorrow. I know myself well enough that I have to pump the handle a few times before thing start flowing, and I know that I’m going to have to get this draft done by about 3PM, because that’s when I can bribe Housemate to ferry me to the library to get things printed. I still haven’t figured out where the heck the printer is jammed, so printing on the road is how it is until we get that sorted.

One of the first things I did was jot down a list of tasks for the day, on a piece of grocery list paper, but that didn’t look right. It had all of the information, but the visuals? Meh. I can do better. I rescued a magenta softcover Markings notebook, with grid pages, from limbo, and laid out what has to get done today. Is this bullet journaling? Am I doing it already? I’ve tried reading explanations/instructions, but my eyes glaze over and/or I get confused. I’ve been doing whatever this is for a while now, and if a thing is on the list, the thing is going to get done.

isthisbujopage

Mini legal pad is not part of the notebook, but it’s pretty.

I keep the office door propped open if it’s okay to talk to me. This was my view for a good chunk of the early morning:

We start on the linoleum…
…and onto the hardwood

 

Skye hates my office carpet. Hates it. I’m pretty sure she wants me to get rid of it, so she can come all the way into the room and sit next to my feet. There is one sliver of hardwood available for kitty bottom, when the door is open, and she has found a way to wedge herself into it. Normally, she’ll sit in the kitchen, on the linoleum, and stare at me until I get the message (that I should pay attention to her, not the glowy box or my papers) but, this morning, she crossed the line. Over the threshold and onto the hardwood. Not a single toe on the carpet. She has her standards.

The clock is ticking down now, and time approaches when it’s going to be me, Hero, and Hero’s Bro. There’s a small  hand squeezing around  my heart, with pointy fingernails, a whisper in my ear that this is scary stuff, but there’s also a list on my door of things that I am doing right, to remind me I’ve been here before, and I did it okay. More than okay. Awesome. No, I do not want to go out in sixteen degree weather to print pages, but N needs pages for tomorrow, and, more importantly, Hero needs this scene to get to second draft, so that’s what’s going to happen. I mean, I can’t leave him there in first draft land. Besides, when I get on the other side of this, I get to talk about what I’ve written, get feedback, and move on to the next scene. But, first, this. Clear the decks of the other tasks so there’s nothing cluttering my mind when it’s time to dive into century eighteen, and turn the metaphorical thumbscrews on Hero. He’s not going to like that, not one bit, but it has to be enough to send him out of everything he’s ever known, and on the path to his future. Kind of like the writing of same. At least I’m in good company.