writing process

Doing The Thing

annabowling 2 Comments

Wednesday’s post on Thursday should give a pretty accurate picture of how things are going this week, and I don’t even have a birthday as an excuse. Can I use first snow of the season? Snow is my favorite weather, by far but even I think October is a tiny tad early for this sort of thing. Eh, roll with the punches, I say, and if that can be a cinnamon roll, I would  be eternally grateful. It will go nicely with my cup of tea here at the coffee house. I thought about getting cocoa instead, but if I’m going to have cocoa, I want to make it myself, on the stove, with actual milk, and either marshmallows or whipped cream. I probably could get something comparable at the coffee house, but I’m in a mood.

I left the mouse at home, because I didn’t want to cart anything not strictly necessary around, especially since I didn’t know, when I left the house, if I was going to make the quick trot down the block to the coffee house, or trek through the park on my way to Panera. Since I am writing this from the coffee house, I think we all know what won out on that question. My tea is at hand, piping hot, phone has appropriate music queued, and now it’s time for me to do my part. Which would be the actual writing. This post first, a chat with Critique Partner Vicki, to bring each other up to date, and moving myself closer to my goals for both Her Last First Kiss and the Beach Ball. It’s a little strange, after only a few days with my nifty keen ergonomic lap desk, which I did not bring with me to the coffee house, though it is portable, so maybe I will try that next time.

I’d had a couple of topics for this post, but discarded them early on, because they were A) boring, B) strange, or C) nothing to do with the reason I blog, which is to muddle my way through this writing process thing. With November around the corner, that means NaNo is everywhere, and, much as I’d love to join in the madness, I can’t. What I do like about it, though, besides the sense of community, is that there is a concrete way to track progress. Thing is, it’s not my way, so I need to find some other method that works for me. The only way to figure that out is to forge ahead and see what I actually end up doing. When I studied Early Childhood Education in college (which was how I figured out I did not want to work in Early Childhood Education) one of the first things to stick with me was that there are different learning styles.

Since I make up stories, tell people who kissed on TV and blabber about books to get monies, it is not a stretch of the imagination to guess that I am not going to be using the correct educational terms here. In short, some of us learn by having somebody tell us what to do. Other learn by reading instructions. Others learn by watching somebody else do the thing. Yet others need to jump into the thick of the thing and figure out what we’re doing while we’re doing it. That’s me.

Right now, I’m looking at November with sleeves rolled back. I am looking at the draft of HLFK that I actually have to show to people. Some of my usual readers are not available, which means seeking out new ones. The extrovert part of me says “yay, new people!” The anxious part of me says “who’s going to want to read that stuff?” (Oh, hello, Hypercritical Gremlin. Back in your closet you go. Spit spot,  let’s spin you about. That’s a boy…or girl…or…I’m not going to look too closely on this one. Back in the closet, thanks  much, and shush, mama’s working.) and the actual process of finding said readers likely lies somewhere in the middle.

What works best for me is feedback. When I lived in the old country, I had a tight group of writer friends, who met weekly. We knew each other’s style, talked about characters like they were family members, and there was never a meeting that I didn’t bring something to read, because that feedback, whether it was praise or constructive criticism, is like air, water and food. Give me that, and I will give oh so much back. That’s the…well, not dream. Too vague. Too misty. I don’t want a dream. I want a goal. Something I can point to and move toward, page by page, every day. Which means I’m doing my thing and figuring out exactly what that thing might be as I go. Which means opening the file, changing my seat when needed, having my supplies in order and making sure  my well is full. Then I draw from it and splash it out onto the page, until I have a big, soggy draft with bits of miscellaneous assorted objects trailing from it as I offer it to my trusted guinea pi…uh, critique partners. Then comes feedback, and then the rewrite. I love the rewrite. Rewrites make me happy, but they can’t happen until I’ve actually made it all the way to The End.

Enough of that. I can babble for the rest of the afternoon, or I can hie myself back to Century Eighteen and torture Hero and Heroine. Guess which I’m going to pick.

1stsnow1016

I’m also watching the snow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Uncle Photobomb Edition

annabowling 2 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Anty only meant to take a picture of me for today’s blog, but she did not know Uncle was right behind me. I made her keep him in the picture because he is super handsome (even if you can only see his hands in this particular picture) and great and my favorite.  Also, he often comes home smelling like fish (he works in a restaurant that specializes in fish) so that is a pretty big bonus if you are a kitty.

While Anty agrees with me on how great Uncle is, she also reminds me who it is who feeds me all day, and the agreement we made about what we talk about, and when, on this blog. That means I have to tell you where you can see Anty’s writing this week, besides here. First, as always, Anty talked about seasonal reading preferences over at Buried Under Romance. That post is here:

http://www.buriedunderromance.com/2016/10/saturday-discussion-time-of-the-season.html and it looks like this:

 

bur21oct16

 

Then Anty got to do one of her other favorite things, and get a look at a book she really really wanted to read, before humans can buy it in stores, and then talk about it. That is her First Look at Baron, by Joanna Shupe. You can read that post at Heroes and Heartbreakers, here:

http://www.heroesandheartbreakers.com/blogs/2016/10/first-look-joanna-shupes-baron-october-25-2016  and it looks like this:

 

 

handhbaron

Anty very much likes books set in Gilded Age New York. Maybe she will write one herself, someday, but right now, she is writing two books with different settings, and that is enough for her. Part of this whole getting back on the horse thing (I have not seen any horses around the apartment, so I think Anty might mean metaphorical horses) is learning what she can handle and still produce the kind of work she wants to share with other humans. This means saying no to some things, like NaNoWriMo. That works very well for other humans, but, for Anty, it feels like too much pressure.

What works better for Anty is to dive into the story and kind of live there for a while. Without distractions is best, apart from any peripherals that help her stay in the story world. That would include her story playlists (the Beach Ball still does not have a playlist of its own, so she will listen to either her Go To Work playlist, which she listens to when writing nonfiction, or the songs she dumps on a general playlist because she likes them, but does not know what story they go with yet) any reference pictures and/or notes, and sometimes even a scented candle. Some scented candles make Uncle sick, so Anty does not burn those when he is around. Sometimes, she will keep the unlit candle around and give it a sniff when she needs to smell that smell.

Sometimes, Anty likes to get out of the house, like when she meets with Miss N on Tuesdays and when she goes to the coffee house on some afternoons. Earlier this week, she wrote on the old desktop (it does not have internet) for a while because Uncle was home, doing Uncle-y things, and Anty needed to get the work done. She was surprised how well that worked. For one thing, the big screen on the monitor is very easy for her eyes to focus on, and, for another, I know where she keeps the gummi bears. I do not eat gummi bears, because I am a kitty, but I know where she keeps them, and being near the gummi bears when writing seems to work rather well.

None of that is really news to those who have been reading this blog for a while, but Anty has a new document going because she is on a new draft, and she does not think that is very interesting to anybody but her. While she likes Scrivener for some things, right now, she is focused on building her story layers, so she is going to try moving everything to Word. That will let her do more work in her office. It is her happy place. She is pretty much splashing around in the shallows of this whole writing process thing, as one’s process can change after big life events (and she has had a few) and, when she finds something that clicks, sticking with that. I am glad that letting me blog for her on Fridays is one of those things. I do take my mews duties seriously, and I will do anything for my Anty. Except enter her office, because I do not like the carpet in there.

Normally, I would say this is about it for the week, apart from Anty being excited because A) The Walking Dead season premiere is Sunday, and B) her birthday is Monday, but it has come to my attention that the picture at the top of the page does not actually include Uncle. I am going to try that again, in case there is something picky about the size of the featured image.

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Photobombed by my Uncle. Best day ever.

 

There. Now, you can see Uncle’s hands above my head and behind me. That is about it for this week. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

skyebye

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

Only a Little Burned

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There’s that moment when a writer has two thoughts that are simultaneous, true and alarming. Thought one: work on this book is going pretty well right now. That is awesome. Thought two: the oven buzzer should have gone off by now. That is not awesome. That is alarming. Set aside papers and laptops, plot route that does not involve tripping over cat (who does not understand the reason for the sudden haste) and make tracks, as quick as possible, to the kitchen. Once there, heave sigh of relief that oven is not engulfed in flames, and imagine the disappointment and cautioning words firefighter friends would have to say on the matter of unattended ovens.

Wrench open oven door and cast a glance at timer that is, sure enough, blinking “over” because that really helps when I am at the other end of the house, nose-deep in the eighteenth century and filling in the blanks of exactly where it is Hero goes when he throws himself out of his brother’s house (not going to lie, that was a moment when I fell a teensy bit more in love with Hero, because, really, who hasn’t wanted to bail on a family argument, when the same relative brought up the same issue for the millionth time? Go, Hero.)  Not that I am advocating recklessness with fire and/or electrical wiring, or throwing things in the oven, willy-nilly, before traipsing off to a prior century. (Or current or future, or alternate universe; fill in whichever applies to the individual) I am not doing that, but I am still working on the whole baking-is-good-for-the-writing-process thing, when both baking and writing require a certain amount of concentration. This time, I think I did okay. Still waiting for the bread to fully cool to find out if the level of crispy critteredness to which I subjected it while off playing with Hero is still fit for human consumption. I hope so, because the kitchen smells amazing.

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Only a little burned, and that’s excess anyway, not the actual bread.

 

Right now, I’m keeping one eye on the clock, because Housemate will be home any minute, and I need to get this entry up, so further HLFK work may get nudged over into the evening, when the house is quiet again, and that is okay. One, I will (hopefully) have cinnamon bread to snack on while tending the story, and two, I got this. For a writer who has been through a total lack of confidence, to the point of creative paralysis, this is heady stuff. I can do this. Look at me go. Granted, some of that going isn’t always in a straight line, and I am probably going to come out of this particular draft with a few metaphorical skinned knees and burned baked goods. Book brain is a real thing, and, after climbing out of that particular black hole, I don’t think I’m ever going to resent it ever again.

Still roughly two hundred words and change until I hit the magic seven hundred. I’ve had to put my copy of A Certain Age, by Beatriz Williams, at the other end of the house, because I’m almost at the end, and if I can get my mitts on it, I am going to inhale that sucker like it’s water and I am dying of thirst. Even though Williams is shelved as fiction, her books are so packed full of so many things I love, and have, in many cases, been missing, in historical romance, that I want to absorb them into my skin and figure out how she does it. “Unusual” historical eras? (this one is 1920s NY) Check. Period feel so real that adjusting to 21st century life when I close the book feels wrong? Check. Black moments that are more like black hole moments, because we are working on negative hope here, but then, bam, HEA after all? Oh check yes. That. I want to do that. I want to be that.

acertainage

Guh. This book.

 

Thing is, I want to do my version of that. Ms. Williams writes in the early twentieth century. Right now, I am writing late eighteenth, and, by the time I type The End for the last time on Hero and Heroine’s story, I have no doubts my feet will get itchy to explore some other time and place. I will know what I need to know, when I need to know it. Right now, I have HLFK and the Beach Ball, my Heroes and Heartbreakers posts  (new one today, by the way, gushing all over Joanna Shupe’s Baron; go look: http://www.heroesandheartbreakers.com/blogs/2016/10/first-look-joanna-shupes-baron-october-25-2016) and this blog, which fills my plate nicely. From here, it’s left foot, right foot, etc, until I have arrived at my destination. If I arrive only slightly burned, I will consider that a win.

Antsy

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I’m ansty today. Part of it is that this is, technically speaking, Monday’s post on Thursday (how did it get to be Thursday?) if Wednesday’s post was indeed posted on Wednesday. If not, and it was Monday’s post, then this is yesterday’s. The fact that I am spending time on figuring this out is all part of the whole antsy thing. Do I have any idea where it came from? Not a clue. Strange hunger still doing its thing, which most likely means something is going through some sort of a change, but I did not get the memo on exactly what that something might be, so I get to try and figure it out as I go along.

That is not always a fun thing. I like knowing what’s going on, and I like having a plan to get those things done. Antsiness goes against that, in a big way. I like structure. I like road maps. All right, intuitive road maps, but my goal here is to get today’s babble done with, hit the magic seven hundred, and then reward myself with a short break. After that, I get to run away to the eighteenth century, and probably get out of the house while doing so, because A) making notes on printed pages can be done anywhere, and B) the waterfowl in Washington Park are doing this:

duckz

That’s an upside down Canada Goose in the middle of all that splashing. I like how calm his mate is, like “George? He does that all the time. No big deal. Got breadcrumbs?” I did not, in fact, have breadcrumbs (actually , frozen grapes would be better for goose and duck tummies) but I sat on that bench for a while, notebook and legal pad still inside my tote, because writing was not happening. Nope. Some days are like that. Some days, a gal has to go rogue and watch waterfowl get their weird on for an hour or so.

The gander (whom we will call George, because he seems like a George) had himself a fine time splashing about in the shallow water, and he did that for quite some time. I hadn’t expected him to go all feet-up like that, and, at first, thought that he’d hit that position by accident. I’ve never seen an upside-down goose before, and, who knows, that may be a George thing, and the other geese talk about him when they think he isn’t looking. Considering that he’s the big dude that threatens passersby, dogs, and tree limbs that look at his woman funny, maybe they don’t do it all that often, but still…feet. In. The. Air. Rolling about like I don’t even know what. I mean, what kind of goose actually goes around doing things like that? Right in front of the humans, too.

Maybe George is onto something. Maybe George was ansty, too. Maybe he’s got itchy wings and wants to head down to  Boca for the winter already, but Wilma (we will call his mate Wilma, because she looks like a Wilma) thinks the goslings aren’t ready for such a big trip yet, even though they look full grown to the humans. Then again, what do humans know? Maybe going upside down is something geese do all the freaking time, and this is only the first time this one human, personally, has seen it, so they think it’s new, but really, it’s Wednesday. Maybe the goslings have no idea what George and Wilma are going on about, because they’ve spent their entire lives in this lake. It is an awesome lake, and there is no reason to leave it. Parents, what do they know? Though the Mallards have been squawking about stopping over in Tennessee or maybe South Carolina, so the grownups could be onto something, but, dude, humans, breadcrumbs, it’s a sweet life.

Then there’s George. Maybe he was taking his regular bath, or maybe he needed to shake off some sort of goose-specific restlessness, but one thing I do know; for the hour or so I hung out around that part of the lake, earbuds in my ears, fiddling with the camera on my phone and waiting for George to do his thing again (he appears to be a champion at barrel rolls, which Wilma did not even attempt) I wasn’t antsy. It was me and it was George (and sometimes Wilma, occasionally their mallard friends) and everything else in my head sat on the back burner, where it was very much welcome to sort itself out.

As  much as I like order, some things need to simmer a while, and find their correct order on their own. Did I come away from the impromptu photo session completely refreshed and ready to take on the world? No. Did it shake off some of the antsiness? Some. Best thing that can be done at times like this is to catch the scent of what works, stay open to more of it, and follow it when I catch the next whiff. This is when I trust that the scent trail will lead to something good. Antsiness usually, for me, comes right before a growth spurt, and, with super powers returned, that’s not an entirely unsurprising concept.

Well over the magic seven hundred here, so throwing this out there, crossing it off my  list, and on to the rest of the day. My imaginary friends are calling.

Strange Hunger

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Monday’s post on Wednesday this week, which means Wednesday’s post has to happen on Thursday, or it will bump into Skye’s  post on Friday, or get shuffled into the weekend. I am not up for that, so today it will be. That pretty much fits with the rest of the day, because I woke feeling like what Skye would term “stuff.” Not coming down with a cold, as far as I know, but body wanted to stay in bed, but that warred with the fact that it was already morning, with the sun risen and everything, and that I was so much in need of bathing that my body was likely to get up and wash itself without me. So, no more bed.

Question then was, what came next? #linewed on Twitter is a given, but that didn’t have to be right away, so attention turned next to this entry. After the last time I carried a Wednesday post for what seemed like forever, I promised myself I wouldn’t do that again, because it bothers me, and this blog is not about bothering, it’s about finding my way through this writing life. Since the calendar, and Facebook memories, reminded me that this is Real Life Romance Hero’s and my falling-in-love-iversary (yes, we do know the exact day, and yes, it was the same day for both of us)  I thought I’d blog about that, but I was already ahead of myself, because I already did, last year, right here:

https://annacbowling.wordpress.com/2015/10/12/happily-ever-after-epically-speaking/

Well, okay then. I dove into an assignment for an art journaling class I’m taking, instead, and, when I looked next at the time, it was almost lunch. How the heck did that happen? Granted, I had actually tackled two assignments, which successfully jump started another part of my brain. I used supplies I hadn’t used in a long time, gessoed over a background I hated and made the page something else entirely, taking a different approach than I’d originally planned, stuck a sticky note over part of the page I wanted to keep private, even when I did share my work with the class, and that’s when it happened. New stuff, that’s what my brain wanted. That’s what’s going to plug the hole in the creative well and let me actually fill the darned thing.

I won’t be playing hooky exactly, but more going on a mission of discovery. There are a couple of tasks that can’t be put off for another day (nor do I want to) but they are also portable tasks, so, really, technically, I can do them anywhere. Regular coffee house haunt, maybe, or library, or park, or downtown coffee shop I’ve always looked at when we drive past it, but have never actually been inside the place. Other park I’ve only been to once. Our own balcony. Some other place I haven’t even thought about yet.

One of my all time favorite pieces of advice is from author K. A. Mitchell, that the best ways to combat block are to open the file (or notebook) and change your seat. Today is a seat changer. I need different stimuli. Reds, yellows and oranges on the trees instead of green everywhere. Cooler air on my skin. Different tastes in my mouth. Different voices around me while I focus on the page or screen in front of me. It’s been said, that if we want something we’ve never had, we have to do things we’ve never done. I’ve written books before, so that isn’t exactly it, but I haven’t written this book before, so I think that counts. Still getting used to dancing on a couple of phantom limbs, stretching a few creative muscles, and the outer change of seasons matches what’s going on in the inside, so I am calling all of that good.

Time, then, to pack up my stuff, take my show on the road and see where the spirit and my two feet take me. Sometimes, the journey is the whole point. Maybe I’ll find a new favorite something, or maybe all that’s going to happen is that I tick the items off my to-do list, which is exactly what would happen if I stayed within the same four walls. Today isn’t a same four walls day, though. Today is a day for filling strange hungers, so off I go.

Typing With Wet Claws: A Little Help From My Friends Edition

annabowling 2 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. There is a lot going on this week, so I will tell you about Anty’s writing first, right off the bat (nothing happened with bats, but it is October, after all, so I thought that was appropriate) before we do anything else.

Anty’s post on Buried Under Romance is all about identity issues this week. It is here:

http://www.buriedunderromance.com/2016/10/saturday-discussion-disguise-mistaken-identity-and-amnesia-oh-my.html and it looks like this:

bur071016

The crop tool in Paint was not made for those of us with paws instead of hands.

 

Anty is always happy to talk about books that she liked, and, this week, a post she wrote once upon a time, about one of those books, Watermark, by E. Catherine Tobler, got a mention on Alexis A. Hunter’s website to kick off Octoblerfest. The giveaway for that book is over now, but if you like speculative fiction, often with a romantic element, you might want to keep an eye on that website, for a chance at other books. The post where Anty’s post is linked is here https://alexisahunter.com/2016/10/01/octoblerfest-giveaway-1-watermark/. Maybe you will win the next giveaway.

I would also like to say thank you to one of my readers, Mr. Glen, who asked Anty if there had been a Feline Friday post last week. Anty assured him there was, and that I would never let my readers down. I take my duties as a mews very seriously. Thank you, Mr. Glen. In case you did miss that post, it is here: https://annacbowling.wordpress.com/2016/09/30/typing-with-wet-claws-mythical-vuvuzela-edition/ and it looks like this:

twwclastweek

A picture of this blog, on this blog; how meta is that?

For those who do not know, Mr. Glen is mystery author Glen Ebisch. I do not know if any of his books have cats in them, but they do have mystery and romance and you can find out more about them here: http://www.glenebisch.com/.

Okay, I think that is all of the housekeeping for this week. Well, apart from picking up my sheds, that is. I am shedding a lot of fur right now, to get ready for my super-floofy winter coat, which means our floors look like an old west ghost town. This has not prompted Anty to start thinking of western romance ideas, but one never knows. Right now, Anty is focused on Her Last First Kiss, and the Beach Ball. Also her posts for Heroes and Heartbreakers, but her novel-writing plate is full right now, and any other ideas are going to have to take a number and wait.

Last night, Anty and Anty Melva spent three times the amount of time they had set aside for their talk on Skype (I am still disappointed Skype has nothing to do with Skye pee, because I am really good at, well, you know. My once upon a time vet said he never saw so much you know what come out of one cat at one time, in his whole career. That has to be worth something.) because they decided to outline all of the scenes to take them to the end of the Beach Ball, and that is exactly what they did. They both threw their arms up in the air and shouted when they got to the end of the outline. That was loud. I am happy they are happy, though. A happy writer human makes the job of a mews that  much easier.

Now that the smoke alarms are fixed, and the new people litterbox has been installed, it is much quieter around here. Apart from when Anty plays music without her headphones, that is. I do not mind when she plays soft music. Usually, I will curl into a ball and go to sleep when she plays soft music. If she plays loud music, I will wake up and give her a look that says I am Not Happy. She will usually apologize, but she is the human, after all, and the music is part of the way she works, so if it is too loud, I will go hide under the bed until the loud part is over. There are not too many loud parts, but only every once in a while.

Now that Anty has leveled up on both books, my job is a little bit different. It is easier for her to figure out how much work should be done on a given day, when she knows exactly where she is going and how she is going to get there. When that happens, she is excited to get to work each day, and sometimes gets a little grumbly when it is time to stop. She likes to work on one scene at a time, and figures that she’ll know the details she needs to know when she needs to know them. If she has to think too hard about a thing, then it is probably not the right thing. The best stories are the ones that talk to her. It is not exactly the stories writing themselves, but it does not hurt when they carry their share of the load.

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

i1035 FW1.1

Until next week…

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

This Book Now

annabowling Leave a comment

We have a new toilet. Probably not the most exciting thing to start off a blog entry, and no, you do not get a picture, but that took up my early afternoon, which is why I’m only getting to write this post now, and why I’m writing it from the, ah, comfort of my own home, instead of from the coffee house, and yes, I am itchy over that. Thwarted extrovert here, but Skye kitty is doing her best, and Housemate will be home soon, to watch Ink Master, so there’s that. There is also writing.

Five days from now, I will start a new morning pages book. That would be the purple one in today’s picture. Current book is the one with the face on it, and yes, I am already scouting out the notebook that will come after that one, because I really do want the alternating page spreads instead of the same pages every time. This will make my fifth notebook since I started doing morning pages, so I think it’s safe to say that this whole morning pages thing is working. Good to know.

Also good to know is that the current method of fumbling my way toward ecstasy, by which I mean leveling up to the next draft, because that is, in itself a form of ecstasy, is working. While dealing with the unique experience of a gentleman showing up at our door, taking out one commode and installing another, thus silencing the vuvuzela player in our basement, my brain was firmly in the eighteenth century. I’m about halfway through my notes on N’s notes, and ready to show this next draft who’s boss. (Hint: it’s me.) The stuff I figured out I’d figure out later (apart from the section that is still literally labeled “Hero Scene” with “vaguest note ever” – that’s still pretty much that, but since Heroine’s reaction to events at that stage of the game is X, his needs to be Y, so they are not even close to on the same page in this part. Nobody can be completely happy until the very end of the book, at which point, I literally throw my hands in the air, shout “HEA!” and cheer. Even in Panera. This may or may not have anything to do with the staff remembering my order without me having to say a word, but I’m not going to investigate it too closely.

Today was not the day I expected. I got to the Laundromat at a later point in the morning than I had intended, I didn’t get any reading done, and I do not want to speculate too much on the reason my favorite washing machine had that many feathers in it. I suspect it may have had something to do with down-filled clothing, pillows, or thrill-seeking chickens. Probably not the chickens, but one never knows. Plumber showed about four hours early, minutes after Real Life Romance Hero vacated the room Plumber needed for his work, and we now have the old toilet waiting on the curb for whatever its next destination will be. I have no idea how these things work, but that’s where it is. Wherever it goes from here is up to forces beyond my control.

What is within my control is how I write this book. Trust my gut. Trust my characters. Tell my story, the way it comes to me, and tell it until it’s told. For me, that comes in layers, enough of them to make a bookish baklava. When I look at the early parts of the story now, they feel a lot sketchier than the later parts, because I didn’t know the story or characters as well then as I do now. That only comes with time, with asking them why, and, more importantly, listening to their answers rather than trying to fill in the blanks by myself. There’s intuition and planning, and that funky space in the middle where it’s a little of both.

Here’s what I do know. I’m writing this book. I know where it starts, where it ends, and what happens in between. I know Hero and Heroine,  why they are both the worst person for the other to fall for, at the worst possible time,  and the very best person for the other in the end. I know it hasn’t taken the path I thought it was going to take right at the start, and I know it still has a few surprises for me before we’re done. I know this one is going to make it. I know I am back on the horse. I know there will be other books after this one, and I know I don’t need to concern myself with them at this point. I know they will present themselves, characters, setting, era and all, at the time I need them and not before. This book now. That may need to go on my wall.

 

Sprechen Sie Romance?

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Of course I have to start with the Post-Its. There is no such thing as too many Post-Its. if they come in their own holder, so that I can take them on the road, all the better. This particular specimen comes from a filing crate Housemate hauled out of the storage unit, because I am at the point of needing to print out drafts and mark them with colored pens and sticky notes (hence the Post-Its.) There is also a wheeled cart that goes with the filing crate, which also has file space, as well as storage for other things, so there will be archaeology and probably some paper shredding and then organization. This is all good stuff, and I am looking forward to setting off on this particular leg of the journey.

I already know I am not doing NaNoWriMo this year, though I will happily shake pompoms on the sidelines and cannot guarantee I won’t at least attempt to sneak into a write-in or two over the course of the month, but participating as such isn’t for me. I can count words or I can write the draft. I can’t do both. No guilt this year, no will I/won’t I or should I/shouldn’t I, because I’m doing the head down, eyes on my own paper thing. That tends to work better for me right now, keeps me motivated, and got me through an outline and bullet point daft, so I think it’s safe to say that’s likely to work for this phase as well.

Hypercritical Gremlins don’t seem to find this approach terribly interesting,  which I take as a good sign, because they’ve been quiet as of late, only the faintest muttering from the corners of their closet. This may  have had something to do with my reorganizing the notebooks I keep in said closet, but that’s beside the point. The point is, it’s Monday, it’s October, and my job, from now until lunch, is to look over the very first scene I wrote for Her Last First Kiss, which is now the second scene, first written, then taken out, now put back in, but needing some fairly major surgery to get it going.

I’m okay with that, and I’m not surprised. When I first wrote the scene, I didn’t know exactly where I was going. All I knew was that I had to get Hero onto the page, and I did, but I didn’t know him then, not the way I do now, because I hadn’t spent all that time with him yet. He certainly hadn’t opened up to me yet, so this poking-things-in-the-dark-with-a-long-pointy-stick approach isn’t that bad, all things considered, but there is significant room for improvement. Which is okay. This book is going the distance, so I’m not worried about that. I have my roadmap, I know where I’m going and how I’m getting there, so that makes it easier, when looking at what I’ve already written, to make the course corrections when needed.

One such correction goes into slightly scary territory (though that is kind of a theme for the month, so appropriate.) – I really do need a historical romance critique partner. This is historical romance, because that’s what I write. The love story is the story, and if I took it out of its particular setting, it would fall apart. This means I have to tread into asking for what I want territory, and that’s…I already said scary, so something else. Intimidating, maybe? No, not quite. I have writer friends I am close to, whom I love dearly, but historical romance isn’t their focus. One is on hiatus, for family reasons, another is no longer in my life, another lives two hundred miles away, others,whom I can see or speak to frequently, touch lightly on romance as an element of other genres, and… imagine gif of person flailing in open water here.

There’s a scene in the series finale of the Highlander TV show, where the hero, Duncan, follows one of the bad guys for I don’t even remember how long anymore, running through multiple languages while trying to get them to talk to him. Do they speak English? No? French? No? Spanish? No? Russian? No? Italian? No? How about Mandarin? Gaelic? Klingon? Okay maybe he didn’t try Klingon, I am very sure I got the languages and their orders wrong, and, since it was the series finale, he probably got them to some sort of resolution, because that’s all the time they had to resolve stuff, but I can identify, to some extent. RWA does have a critique partner matching thingityboo, and I will probably look into that, and yet…there’s still the hunger to sit in the same room with someone who speaks my native tongue, preferably same dialect.

Where is this going? Darned if I know, but what I do know is that I have a date with chapter two that was once chapter one, and I’ll figure things out as I go. I do my part, my imaginary friends do theirs. Now if I can only figure out how to get them to pick up the check when I take them out to the coffee house…..

Bound By The Work We Started

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My new office chair is in place. Smoke detectors are done chirping and back to protecting our safety. Blog entry is next on my list of Things To Do, before I dive, with love and uncertainty, back into the actual writing and related tasks (of which blogging is assuredly one) and title comes from the Sting song that was playing when I opened WordPress today. Not a pop song, but a selection from probably the only-ever hit Broadway show about shipbuilding, The Last Ship. Probably only Sting could ever write a hit Broadway show about downtrodden shipbuilders reclaiming their moxie, but he’s Sting, so he can.

Yesterday, I hit a huge pit of gaming withdrawal. I don’t remember the last time I was able to boot Sims 3, and the missing it hit me, hard. Okay, a friend squealing over how great Fallout 4 looked on her new PlayStation may have had something to do with that. I tried booting Sims 3 but ye olde lapptoppe wouldn’t hold an internet connection long enough to boot, so that was out of the question. Still, I had the hunger. My work for the day was done. I needed to calm down from a couple of stress triggers, and I knew gaming would do the trick…which would be super helpful if I could actually boot my game.

Which was when the other thing hit me. I still had Sims Medieval (TSM) installed, and (thank you, organization) the CD was right at hand. Popped that puppy in, and, after a couple of false starts, boom, game. I knocked off a quest for my blacksmith in pretty short order, took some screenshots, and impressed myself with how much fun it was to get back to it, after al this time. Sims and a  historical environment should be a natural for me, and it is. Sure, there are some drawbacks, because it isn’t like real Sims. I can’t build, for one thing, and I have to do quests, rather than making my Sims live their lives (preferably in a custom neighborhood that looks like Levittown and Centralia somehow collided) but it felt good to play with some form of pixel people, and I hadn’t played since Origin installed the update, so there should be some new-to-me stuff.

There’s also the fact that it’s been so long that part of the game does feel like I’m playing it for the first time again, but I have enough experience from those long-ago quests that I’m not starting at zero, even if it feels like it. Rupert, my blacksmith, pictured above (he’s the dude; chick is Queen Sascha, who sent him on his quest) is now at level nine of his career, so he’s got some cred and swagger. Also a nifty assistant who does a bunch of his work for him, which is a big perk.

What does this all have to do with writing, one might ask? It’s okay. Go ahead. I did. Half the time I write these blogs, I don’t know where I’m going when I start, but if I do keep going, I usually figure it out, because I’m me, so I can. Aha. Kind of like Sting in that respect. All right, that may be the only thing Sting and I have in common. I am pretty sure I am never going to write a hit Broadway musical about shipbuilding (or anything else, most likely. I also got thrown out of robed choir in high school, for having a bad voice -teacher’s words- in front of the entire class, but hey, I got to read romance novels while everybody else sang, so who really won that breakup?) Then again, Sting is probably never going to write a historical romance novel. (If he did, though, I’d probably read it.) Which is all okay, because there’s room for both in this crazy world we live in, and lots of people like both. It’s not an either/or kind of thing going on here. I appreciate that.

The more we exercise any muscle, the stronger it gets. When I booted TSM last night, it wasn’t real Sims. I hadn’t played in forever. There were going to be things I forgot, skills that got rusty, and I didn’t remember who all my characters were. I wanted to game, though, needed to game, and this was the game I could play, and so it was going to happen. Little splashing around in the shallows, but then I got into it and, by the time I shut down because I had to adult, quest completed, fun had, next quest already picked out. It felt a lot like writing, which is why I like the Sims franchise. It uses a lot of the same muscles; character creation, the development of relationship, goals, motivations and conflicts, and, in the end, telling a story. Telling a story is what I love most. Plop it in an old-timey setting, and I am home, baby.

Reaching the points I’m at for the current mss is scary, because I’ve leveled up. I beat the monster of the first levels, laid my foundations, and now I need to build and fortify. Decorate, because making things look right is part of the fun. Combat the bigger, stronger monsters that come with each new level, because my big goal is defeating the boss at the end. Or, in the case of writing a book, The End. All those voices that say “you can’t do it,” or, worse, “you can’t do it anymore,” those need to be drowned out by the clicking of keys, the scratch of pen against paper, a playlist with a respectable amount of Sting on it, and one foot in front of the other until the final draft is done.

Hey Hey It’s A Monday

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New office chair (thank you, Ursula) is in place, it is super comfortable, and my back has already sent out hand-written thank you notes to my brain, which my brain greatly appreciates. I am having a weird hair day. Not a bad one, merely a weird one, which is why there are messy buns and beak clips. I am wearing both an infinity scarf and sandals, a sure sign that it is September in New York. I have learned, only about five minutes ago, and a day after I used a wrench to open a particularly sticky bottle of seltzer, that what I thought was a mini-mousepad is actually a bottle opener grippy thing.

I  have had said grippy thing since the NECRWA conference this past spring, and it took me that long to figure it out. If I hadn’t noticed that the surface of the supposed min-mousepad, which should have been smooth (which is kind of the whole point) was textured and kind of rubbery-pebbly, but in a grid-ish sort of fashion rather than actual pebbles, I probably still wouldn’t know, and would keep toting the darned thing around, rather than tossing it in the kitchen drawer where I now know it belongs. This also means that mini-mousepad goes on my list of desired (preferably pink) computer accessories.

This was not my only d’oh-worthy discovery of the afternoon. The notebook in which I made notes that I had planned to transcribe today? Left it at home. Okay. Slightly different focus to today’s session, then. When packing my tote, my brain was too busy with the “is it time to put away the summer tote for the season” debate to notice that I had not actually brought the notebook that was the whole point of going out, but I can do what’s on the index cards for now and fill in the rest when notebook and I are in the same place. I will admit to a small voice in the back of my head, whispering that it’s a sign I should instead use the time to watch Friday Night Lights, but I am not listening to that voice during writing time. Writing time is writing time, and much as I love spending time with Coach Taylor and the gang (mostly Tim; came for Jason Street, aka Future Mr. Amber Holt, stayed for Tim Riggins, still don’t care about football, but love the passion for the game) they are not going to get this book written. That’s my job. I show up, Hero and Heroine show up, too, and we all hit the field…er, page, which is when the magic happens.

I like knowing where I’m going, how I’m going to get there, and who’s going with me. I’ve tried pantsing, but as a person who has actually sustained physical injury from putting on pants, that is not a tactic that works well for me. There is a component of flying into the mist when following the original idea -the best characters and/or stories are the ones that find me- but when I know where the journey of a particular book is going, I want to know how we’re going to get there, what the stops are along the way, and leave enough room for some fun surprises.

Learning to ask for what I need is a new thing for me, and that includes asking myself…and listening. That’s scary. What do I need right now? Do I need to touch paper? Step away from the keyboard, touch some paper. Maybe my version of black on white that I need right now is actually purple on pattern. Am I not physically comfortable right now? If I am, how so? Am I hungry, angry, lonely or tired? Do I not have what I need to know what happens in this scene? If so, I can go get it. Maybe that means popping online, to check a bit of information. Maybe it means I need to talk about it to a write friend, online or face to face. Maybe the missing bit is at the bottom of a cup of tea or at the end of a movie or TV episode that has the right feel, or that actor who does that thing in that scene. Maybe it’s in the middle of the bridge of that song I can’t get out of my head, or somewhere in the book my brain keeps going back to when I don’t yank its leash.

I’m at the end of my blog time for today, so I’m going to take some inspiration from Skye’s weekly signoff and say that’s about it for this entry. Sometimes, what I need is a good pointless babble, which, in reflection, makes it not that pointless after all. There is an inherent order into unexpected side trips, as long as they get me back on the main road, and I am going to call that good enough.