writing

Typing With Wet Claws: Too Darned Hot Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Even though I am the one with the built-in fur coat, Anty  is the one most affected by the heat. Uncle had a rough day, too, yesterday, and even Mama has been feeling sluggish, and she is usually the hardiest in this weather. Before I am allowed to talk about anything else, I have to talk about Anty’s writing first, so we will do that now.

Anty’s most recent Buried Under Romance post is here, and it looks like this:

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Do you like to go fast or slow?

Summertime has never been Anty’s favorite time of year, because it is very hot and bright, and she is sensitive to both of those things. That means that, for most of the summertime, staying inside, in front of the box fan, during the day is the smart thing to do. Thankfully, since Anty is a writer, this actually works in her favor. Well, apart from the whole lack of energy thing. Do not worry, though; when autumn comes, Anty will get her superpowers back. She is not willing to wait for a couple more months to get to the top of her game, and so she has to make a couple of adjustments here.

Since Anty is a morning person, getting up super early helps. It is still cool in the morning, and  her brain is all fresh from sleep. The house is quiet, too, so it is the perfect time for her to write her morning pages. She is excited to start a new morning pages book, and has settled on the Papaya! Art spiral bound book for her next round of morning pages. If you have missed that post, (it is here) that book looks like this:

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She still does not know what pens she will use for that, but that is okay. She will know what to use when the time comes, and admits that she will probably have to do an ink test, even though she doesn’t want to make any mistakes on a book this special. Come to think of it, she feels the same way about the books she is writing, but there, too, she is learning to make adjustments.

Miss H, one of Anty’s writer friends, reminds Anty that nobody ever has to see a scene if Anty really thinks it is, um…stuff, (Miss H did not say “stuff.” I am using it as a euphemism for what she really said.) but Anty does have to write it. Anty is very tempted to say bad words to Miss H when Miss H says this, but she settles for saying the same thing right back to Miss H when it is Miss H’s turn. That is the important thing. It is okay to write the scene while scared of writing that scene. Getting even the roughest version out of the brain and onto the page or screen is what is important here. There will be time to make it pretty later, but nothing can be done if there is nothing on the page. Anty finds that it can be difficult to get over perfectionism, but it is also necessary. Sometimes, that is the biggest part of the battle, and once there is something, anything, on the page, then the rest comes easily.

This week, Anty has been working on both Her Last First Kiss, and the Beach Ball, although not as quickly as she might like. As I mentioned above, it has been very hot, and there has been a lot of humidity. I usually find a doorway with good air flow (the bathroom hallway is the best, because there are no windows, the floor is linoleum (or would that be lion-oleum, because it is comfy for kitties?) and, if I am in the right spot, I can catch breezes from the living room fan, Anty and Uncle’s bedroom fan, and stay in direct line of sight of the pantry door, which is where the humans keep my food and treats.

Even though Anty is most dominant, she is too big to flop in a doorway, and so she has to take other measures. Her comfy chair is in front of the living room fan, and the master bedroom door can close, keeping all the cool air inside. Her office even  has a ceiling fan, so that gives her another place she can work comfortably, even when it is not a good idea for her to go outside even the short distance to the coffee house. Even so, there are some days when it is flat out (and I am flat, even though I am inside) too disgusting to brain.

Anty is learning that, when it is difficult to put out, then it is time to take in. Because her body loses water, salt and potassium when the weather is hot, then she needs to put those things back into it by what she eats and drinks. The same way, since she puts out story when she writes, she needs to take story in between writing sessions. Reading is the best way, in her genre and out of it, to both stay grounded in why she loves what she loves and to inject some new energy into what she’s already doing.

 

Sometimes, the shift happens when Anty is not even looking for it. Today, while doing laundry (she went very early, so she could be there and back before it got too hot) Anty read a chunk of one of the books she got from the library earlier this week, and, when it came time to read the next chapter, she took out her mini notebook from her pen pouch to make a couple of quick notes. Yeah, Anty, those pages are more than a couple of notes, but that is exactly the point. Keeping one’s well filled means there will be enough to draw from when the time comes.

Anty says that time has come now  (also for my lunch, so there’s that) so that is about it for this week. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

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Until next week…

Skye O’Malley Hart-Bowling

 

 

 

 

Morning Pages, the Heir Presumptive, and the Young Pretender

annabowling 1 Comment

 

 

With one week left in my current, much-beloved morning pages book, the time has come to decide on which book will be its successor, and I’d like to say I’m closer, but a young pretender has entered the fray.  Going by only what I currently possess, the heir presumptive is this lovely bird and flower themed Punch Studio book:

Endpapers
Lined pages

 

That’s the endpapers in the first picture, internal pages in the second. Same images on all spreads, where I do prefer that they rotate. Banastre Lobster has no opinion on that.

Normally, the issue would be settled, but we have a young pretender to the throne, this spiral-bound Papaya! Art (the exclamation point is part of the name) gorgeousness, which would continue the Paris theme:

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Banastre must, of course, investigate.

My heart did a skippity-skip when I first saw this on the shelves at Barnes and Noble, and I don’t remember when the precious actually came home, but I knew I wanted to save it for something special. Since I still have absolutely zero ideas for any Parisian historical romances, morning pages would fit the bill. Inside pages are not lined, but are lovely.

First, we have this inside cover and first page, which presents a challenge when the discipline is one two-page spread for each day:

 

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Name and address on inside cover, obv, but facing page?

 

After that, we have these:

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None of the pages are lined, but those backgrounds…guh. Gorgeous. I want to put things on them. On the one hand, I think Hero would heartily approve of my appreciation of a pre-prepared background, because he used to do that kind of thing, but then again, his experience in Paris (hey, there is a connection!) was not exactly his favorite part of life. He wouldn’t know about the Eiffel Tower, though, as it was a century after his time. The clouds, though, and the design elements, those he knows, and the floral motifs fit nicely for a Georgian gentleman (and his lady.)

The question for me  here is, would the lack of lines be a problem? Also, what sort of pens do I want to use on these pages? They’re thicker than regular paper-paper, but not thick enough that I’d feel comfortable using Sharpies, at least not without an ink test, but I don’t want to sacrifice a page for that. Even so, the rotating designs excite me, and since I plan to increase to seven entries per week instead of six, that’s almost two rotations every week, but not exactly, so monotony would not be an issue. If the pages are visually inspiring, I am going to come to them with a better outlook, and, if stuck for what to put on the page, the images have suggestions right there. If I really need lines, I can draw them on with pencil and ruler. Fountain pens or rollerballs are my best educated guess on the pen issue. I’ve tried another book by this same maker, a different design in this line, with ballpoint, and I was so unhappy with that, that I set the book aside. Will need to resurrect that one, with a better selection of pen.

As I am writing this, I am listening to the Hamilton soundtrack. A writer friend will be traveling from Canada to NYC to see the show live this coming week. Right after the original cast departs, which does bring a pang, but, then again, there will be the energy of of the new cast making their debuts, and there will be the PBS documentary in October, and the original cast has been filmed, (I would totally go see this in theaters, if it were to be distributed that way) so it’s possible to get the best of both worlds there. I’ve been listening to the soundtrack, first as an Independence Day celebration (I know, Banastre, I know. Mama still loves you.) and then as part of my “immerse myself in the zeitgeist” plan of working through this draft.

Her Last First Kiss is set in England, in 1784, and Hero is not a soldier; he’s an artist, and he’s spent the pertinent years on the Continent (see Paris experience, above) so he’s pretty far removed from that business in the Colonies, but he does exchange letters with a cousin, relocated to Canada from New York, because expulsion of British and all that. Heroine is the product of a Russian father and English mother, was raised in England and identifies as British. These two have latched onto me in a way I’d been afraid I wouldn’t experience again after the time travel stalled, and I want to give them the very best story I can, which means I need to let their world seep into my writerblood.

The thing with writing historical romance novels is that the characters don’t know they’re in a historical. They think they’re in a contemporary. For Hero and Heroine, 1784 is their now. They aren’t wearing costumes; those are their clothes. People are people, no matter what century in which they do their people-ing, and that’s what I want to bring to live the most. If Hero were a 21st century person, he’d probably be glued to his phone, but he’s an 18th century person, so he carries around a portable lap desk so he can write letters and sketch/doodle. That was actually the first thing he showed me about himself, that desk. Writers, you understand how that works. Once he saw I was going to treat the desk right, then he came a little bit closer, like a stray cat when their benefactor moves the food dish an inch closer to the porch every day, until both cat and human are astonished that they are cuddling in the porch swing together.

If I were going to let Hero pick the new daily pages book, he’d pick the spiral bound. Which is, obviously, a lot thinner than the heir presumptive. Which may lead me to the same dilemma sooner, rather than later. I am not complaining.

 

There Are Lobsters on My Desk

annabowling 1 Comment

 

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In case there is any doubt as to my lifelong case of raging Anglophilia, today’s picture should put that to rest. Paris-themed stationery aside (as in literally; I had to move my Marie Antoinette themed matchbook notepad out of the way to take this image) I’ve been hardwired for most things British straight out of the box, as far as I can remember. Don’t ask me when it began, because I have no idea, though I will allow that, by the time I was one year old, the family newly moved to a house in Bedford, NY, from Manhattan, our bottom-of-the-hill neighbors were Scottish immigrants. Shortly after that, my mom met her best local friend, a British  expat, who happened to have a baby my age (yes, our families met on a playground, why do you ask?) Very easy to guess, in this case, what sort of adults I saw most often on a regular basis in my formative years. I strongly suspect they imprinted on me, early, and with lasting impact.

While that probably explains my affinity for mentally hopping the pond, I lay the thankblame (which should totally be a real word) for historical romance being my soulmate genre at the feet of two aunts. Aunt L was my mom’s sister. She lived in New Jersey, and, every time she visited (we lived in CT by this time,) she would bring at least one paper grocery bag stuffed to the top with historical romance novels. I was too young to read them at this point, but it was still my job to take the bag directly to the laundry room, un-bag them, and set them aside for my mother’s later perusal. This was when I fell in love with some of the cover art in that first wave of historical romance. It was all painted back then, not photographs, every cover a tiny work of art. I read the blurbs, noted hero and heroine first names (I’ve been name-obsessed since I was about eight) and was a good kid, not looking into the forbidden pages, not even a little.

Well, kind of. Aunt S, wife to Uncle G, my dad’s best friend from their Army days, wrote one. Then two, then three, you get the drift. I went with Mom to the book section of Caldor, to peruse the rack and keep an eye out for Aunt S’s name. I don’t remember which one of us found it, but I remember how my heart did a skippity-skip when I saw it, then another when Mom took it out of the rack.  We were buying that book. We were taking it home. I have had that same feeling many a time, when lifting a much-desired book from its shelf, rack, box, hitting the download button, whatever, but this one…this one was the very first, and I knew, without knowing much about it, that this one would be special. I didn’t know it was going to change my life.

Even before Aunt S wrote her first book, even before (to my knowledge) Aunt L hauled grocery bags full of historical romance novels from NJ to CT (and it only now hits me that my mother and aunts were romance readers, and I never got to talk romance novels with them. I even remember mentioning something about a character from one of Aunt S’s books to Aunt G, another of Mom’s sisters, and her responding that she saw the character differently…you read at least one romance novel, Aunt G, and you never said.) I lived in Bedford, NY, during the Bicentennial (dating myself, I know, but I am fine with dating myself, because I always have a lovely time; I’m delightful.) As in town that was literally burned to the ground by the British Army during the war, except for one house. Home to a very lovely historical society I loved then and love now, and setting for my first historical romance, My Outcast Heart.

Dalby and Tabetha’s story takes place a  half century and change before the war, so they’d be opinionated seniors by that time, but it’s safe to say that, growing up around that much Revolutionary history, the Georgian age imprinted on me, as well. Maybe that’s why the Georgian period seems to be my historical default setting when I start a new novel. It’s not the only period I like – I’ve written sixteenth century, English Civil War, turn of the twentieth century romances so far, that are currently available, and I have hopes for my first medieval, but when it came time to start Her Last First Kiss, there wasn’t any doubt that it would be Georgian.

There aren’t any Redcoats (aka Lobsterbacks) in Hero and Heroine’s story, though they’ll likely find a few when they get where they’re going, but in future books, there absolutely will be. Ember and her Golden Man still rustle at me from the pages of notebooks and not-quite-right drafts, and I’m sure there will be other soldiers with tales to tell, so I will keep acquiring lobster-related items along with my Union Jacks and other related ephemera. For now, I’m head down, eyes on my own paper, for Hero and Heroine’s tale, which I can now get to, as I can cross “blog entry” off my list. Happy midweek!

 

Mental Health Day

annabowling 2 Comments

This may be the only thing I write all day. Then again, maybe it’s not. I’m not sure, at this point, where the figurative road will take me today, but I knew, when I woke at two and four and five and six, that this was a day I needed to recharge. The weekend had its share of domestic tornadoes, the weather was hot, and, at the time I got up (well, some of the times,) I fully expected temperatures in the high eighties, and blazing sunlight, neither of which are conducive to me at my best. When I come up short with topics for my morning pages, I write about what my ideal plan would be for that particular day, if I could do anything-anything. Anything-anything means I am not bound by mundane concerns like weather, transportation, money, desired companions being alive or non-fictional, that sort of thing. Today, my plan did not take up a lot of space on the page: stay home and red books. Maybe nap. So I did. Or, rather, I am.

The weather we actually got is a little different than what I expected. Current temperature as of this writing is still eighty-six, but we have a light rain, which means cloud cover, so sun is not an issue. It doesn’t feel that hot. The house is quiet. Real Life Romance Hero and Housemate are both off at work, and I could be. (Am, because I’m writing this? Am, because filling the well is part of the process? Am, because the Skype conference I had with Melva yesterday about Beach Ball is still fresh in my mind, and the wheels are turning, even if that’s not my main concern for the day?) There is still a lot of day left in front of me, still time before Housemate returns home, yet more time before RLRH returns home, and Skye is, as always, respectful of my clickety-clack on the glowy box.

Last night, everybody was home. Last night, the weather was sticky hot and icky humid. Last night, I had one shot at a Skype conference with Melva before she headed off for a family vacation, where she will, no doubt, recline on sparkling white beaches with Mr. Melva, for more than a week. The only private place to have said conference would be in my office, which would, if the door were closed, qualify as an oven. Housemate kindly clambered atop the kitchen stool and activated the ceiling fan, and, once it had been going for a while, made the room rather…inhabitable. This is kind of a new thing. I could get used to that. Melva and I made plans for the next few scenes of the Beach Ball, and I spent the rest of the evening chatting with another writer friend, and poking another project with a figurative stick. I would have stayed longer, and likely picked up a second wind, but I was about to go facedown on the keyboard, and did not have the mental faculties to read, let alone write. Hence, today.

I still count today as a productive day. I have napped (not intentionally; it kind of happened, but I figure I needed it) and opening my laptop to write this entry is the first time I’ve touched the machine (apart from carrying it from office to living room – nearly a year into owning this lovely pink piece of technology, and I am still amazed at how light she is) all day. Apart from checking a couple of things on my phone, I’ve been unplugged. Stuck my nose in a book, a paper one, read purely for pleasure, no writing about it needed. I haven’t played any music or gone anywhere near Netflix or YouTube or any of that.

Instead, I’ve read. I’ve spent time with RLRH. Took time to have lunch and do nothing but have lunch while having lunch. Played with Skye. Napped. Considered what only-for-pleasure book I will read next, after I have finished this one (and I may finish it during this calendar day, too, or maybe tomorrow) and when I might want to visit the library next, and harvest a fresh crop. Rolled my current writing projects around in my head, in the background this time, instead of the foreground, made a few mental notes that will translate to paper notes in a bit. For now, I want them to marinate.

I am surprised that I don’t feel guilty. There are no Hypercritical Gremlin voices calling me a slacker, while they jump up and down and turn a redder shade of purple, their fuzz standing out on end (it does that when they are ruffled; the are usually ruffled) and clench their fists. Instead, I feel…peaceful. Beyond the box fan in the window, I hear light rain, and car tires on pavement, one of my top three favorite sounds of ever. The fan blows cool air over my bare legs. I am debating getting up to refill my travel mug with cold seltzer. Maybe once I post. Maybe after I read another chapter. Maybe after another nap. Maybe if I nip into this document, for only a moment, to jot one thing down.

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Officially Summertime Edition

annabowling 2 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Now that it is officially summertime, this is going to have an effect on the way Anty does a few things. It does not affect the fact that I have to talk about her writing first, before I am allowed to talk about anything else, so I will tell you about the current Buried Under Romance discussion post.

This past week, Anty discovered a new-to-her author (who is not very new, because she has over fifty books out and more on the way.) It looks like Anty has some reading to do. Have you ever discovered an author with a very big backlist? How did you handle tackling that? Start at the beginning and go through in order, or jump in wherever you felt like it? Maybe you even found some other way. Drop by Buried Under Romance and let Anty know. She is nosy about things like this. That post is here and it looks like this:

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This past week saw the onset of the summer season, which is not Anty’s favorite. Anty is not covered in fur like I am (because she is a people) so she does not have that to shield her from the sun, which can be very, very bright. It can also get very, very hot, and Anty, because she had heatstroke when she was a very young grownup, needs to be careful in hot weather. That means staying inside as much as possible when it is bright and/or hot outside,  stay hydrated, and get more rest if she needs it.  When she does go outside during the daytime, then she needs to wear a hat and protective clothing (long sleeves, or a shawl covering arms and shoulders, long skirt or dress) because her skin is sensitive to chemicals used in many sunblocks. She even once got a rash from newborn sunscreen. All of this makes me very glad that I have fur and am an indoor kitty. I like my sunbeams, but I do not think I would like being outside all the time. I was, before I was rescued, and it was not that great, but I am digressing.

Anty finds that the arrival of summertime means that she needs to make a few changes to the way she goes about this whole writing thing. For one thing, she has started going to bed earlier so that she can get up earlier. Anty is a morning person anyway, no matter the season, and mornings are the coolest part of the day, since the house is still comfortable from the nice, cool night. Anty’s brain is sharper in the mornings (she crashes shortly after lunch, then gets a second wind) so she likes to start with her morning pages (she still does not know what book she wants to be her next morning pages book, so stay tuned for developments on that front) and then get into the business of the day.

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Anty has found, through writing her morning pages, that writing about what she is going to write, before she writes it, makes the actual writing a lot easier, because she does not have to decide what she will be writing while she is actually writing it. If that does not make  a lot of sense to you, do not worry. Anty had to think about that while explaining that to me, too. What it all comes down to is that Anty is a talker. While the best-best thing is to talk about the story to another writer friend, preferably one in the same genre, writing about writing is like talking on paper, so it is a big help. Anty thinks the butterfly cover on the notebook in the picture above is symbolic of all the changeyness going on these days. She does not know what she will write in that notebook, but she does know she will be writing in it with sepia ink. Once she fixes that pen cartridge, that is.

 

 

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That brings us to the actual writing.  Summertime has not always been a great time for that,  thanks to the whole heat and sun thing, but, this year, Anty  has found a few ways to get around that. Writing by hand in her nice, shady office is a good start, and remembering to keep her creative well filled by making time to read, take in other stimuli, and, most importantly, play with me. It is an ongoing process, and Anty has learned -or, she would say, she is learning- not to rush. Of course things are going to be different now than when she first got into this game, because she is different, and the market is different as well. Maybe, this year, instead of grumbling about  how long it is until September (autumn is her favorite season,) the key is to appreciate this stage of the journey for where and what it is, and know that, if she stays on the right track, she will get there. That leaves room for some summer fun along the way, which, for Anty, usually involves books and friends who love books. Also ice cream. There is also playing with me, but I am an all season kitty, so maybe I do not need to mention that, because it is obvious.

It should also be obvious that that is about it for this week, so, until next time, I remain very truly yours,

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Until next week…

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

Hungry

annabowling 2 Comments

When you’re hungry, eat. When you eat, eat food.

–Kara Brooks

The fact that I know exactly how much longer it will be until lunch should explain how I got on this theme for today’s blog. The fact that I have a mental list of every snack in the house, can rattle off a ranking of which order I would prefer to consume them, and have already decided I will propose tonight as a foraging night (meaning we have food, we’re all grownups, everybody find food and eat it, because I’m not cooking) sealed the deal on today’s topic. The quote above comes from my cousin, a tall, tattooed, red-haired Army veteran with the voice of an angel, who is adept at giving me smacks upside the head when needed. I do not recall when this particular quote came into play, ( best guess a few years back) but I remember it, word for word

This is not a post on nutrition, and it is. It is not, in the aspect that I am not going to talk about calories, food groups, pyramids or any of that stuff. It is, in the aspect that one can, theoretically, own the greatest racehorse in the world, but if one never feeds him/her, how many races is he/she going to win? (Hint: zero, because horses that do not eat do not survive, and dead horses cannot run.) Now that we’ve got that out of the way, in a move that surprises nobody, (say it with me now) it’s the same way with writing. Maybe there are some people who can put out without ever taking in, but I am not one of them.

Last night, I had a Skype chat with another writer friend, and had a file open, because we do that often, write while chatting. This time, though, I stared at my split screen, Skype on one side, Word Pad on the other, and…nope. Yes, I know these characters. Yes, I love them. Yes, I know what happens next -it’s right there in my notes- and yes, I have a plan. No, I could not make any of it happen. I punched a few keys in desultory fashion, scrolled through my Spotify playlist, whined to my friend, stared down Word Pad, and…nope.

Zip, zilch, zero, nothing, nada, nil, endless void where writing ought to be. Storytelling, even. I’d take bullet points. I got bupkis.  Less than bupkis. The characters froze in place and stared back at me, their expressions conveying only a general “we thought you knew what was going on here” vibe. My reaction could best be summarized by sending over a tuxedo-clad waiter (yeah, really not moving from the food thing here) to explain to Sir and Madam that there has been a slight inconvenience in the kitchen and Chef deeply apologizes for the inconvenience.

“Slight inconvenience,” in this case, would mean that there was a raging grease fire, Chef’s only weapons a slightly damp washcloth and a bucket of what could be sandbox sand, or it could be kitty litter, but the grease fire did serve to distract from the fact that the delivery of actual ingredients for the dishes ordered (or, really, any dishes at all at this point) had not yet arrived. As in, the washcloth and maybe-sand-maybe-kitty-litter is basically what there would be at this point. I don’t think I have to point out that nobody wants a dinner of washcloth and sand and/or kitty litter. Not even if it’s rolled, burrito-style and presented with a garnish of whatever happens to be in Chef’s trouser pockets.

In a restaurant situation, this means that somebody has to go out and obtain said ingredients (okay, yes, put out the grease fire first. Always put out the grease fire first.) In a writing situation, facing a page with “well, I got nothing,” is usually a good cue that it’s time  to go out and get something. Take a break. Read something that engages, whether it’s a book, an email, the back of a cereal box, whatever. Watch an episode of a favorite TV show. Take in a movie. Take a walk. (I like to go to the park and look for ducks. Ducks usually serve as wonderful creative consultants. I think it’s all the paddling.) Have a snack. Have a nap. Play with a pet. Insert old saw about drawing water from an empty well. Not going to happen. Time to get something in there, before anything else can come out.

So it was, last night. I bid my friend goodnight, saved my document and logged out. One relaxing bath and a couple of chapters later, I turned off the light, the perils of characters-n0t-my-own the last thing on my mind, ready to digest overnight. I woke up still hungry, but I have a full pantry (aka TBR shelf) to take care of that. The selection is varied, and I am only minutes’ walks from two different libraries, so if the particular flavor I want isn’t literally at hand, it’s not that far away.

Right now, I’m hungry. Yes, for lunch (which will happen after posting) but also for story, for that deep immersion in the story world, climbing into the characters’ skins and seeing what they see, feeling what they feel. I don’t want to browse. I don’t want to skim. I don’t want to nibble or sample or taste. I want the meat. I want to feast. I want to take in what I need to do what I need, not in quick bursts, but to go the distance, and, maybe, fuel somebody else’s fire.

 

 

Flop Day and Morning Page Rambles

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Today is a flop day. The temperature, at last consult, was ninety-three degrees. The sun is bright. I am fair, and sun-and-heat-sensitive. This means stay the heck inside, wear light, loose clothing, stay hydrated, and plop self in front of box fan for the duration. Since I am a writer, this is not that difficult a task. I have reading to do for various upcoming Heroes and Heartbreakers posts, and two ongoing WIPs. Well, official ones. I have back burners. Lots to keep me out of trouble, and in range of cool, moving air. Real Life Romance Hero is at hand, and, later in the afternoon, the whole household (minus Skye, who stays home, because she is a kitty) will decamp to an air-conditioned car and air-conditioned venue for an extra dose of cooling.

Mornings are the easiest parts of flop days, as it’s not as hot yet as it’s going to be, and I’m a morning person anyway. My morning beverage is cold instead of hot on these days, and comes with me when I write my morning pages. In two more weeks, I’m going to have filled my current morning book, and will need to choose another one. This may or may not be from my current stock. A peek, first, at previous and current notebooks:

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Book with the river scene is my previous book; book with burgundy damask flap is current.

 

The Eiffel Tower theme was not intentional, so not strictly necessary for the new book to continue that tradition, but both do have a rotation of designs on the interior pages, and that is a requirement. That’s where the indecision comes into play. I do very strongly prefer writing on beautiful pages, and having rotating designs on each two page spread reinforces that I am writing two pages and two pages only for this purpose. I could have sworn I had a third Paris-themed book (not the one in today’s featured picture, though that is the new baby; those pages are plain lined ivory, and the only thing I know is that I will be writing on them with red and turquoise Pilot Varsity pens, no clue as to content) at hand, with a black/white/red color scheme, that would be the natural successor, but the book in the crate where I thought it was has plain lined pages, not rotating designs that I remembered. Either I filed it in the wrong crate, or I was engaging in some wishful thinking. Bottom line here is, I need to pick a new morning pages book. I do have two books with rotating designs, as shown below:

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Candidates one and two from current stock

 

I did take pictures of the covers, but it refused to load, and I am not taking pictures of every design in both books, so use your imagination. Assume the art style remains consistent within each book and on its covers. The larger book is Paris-themed, but I’m not sure it’s clicking with me at this precise moment. Neither book has lined pages; some are unlined, and some have grids. The larger book has some pages where the design takes up the entire page, and I’m not sure where I’d even write on those pages. Designs in the smaller book take up part of the page, so that would cut into the writing space, and that’s more thinking than I want to do first thing in the morning, unless it’s one of those days where I get to start off by having breakfast with my imaginary friends. Neither book is out of the running, because A) I have them, and B) I do want to use them one day, but I’m not sure if they belong to this purpose.

There is one other contender currently on hand, and I already know what pen I would use to write in it (turquoise Pilot Varsity, as shown.) :

Front cover
Same spread on all pages

 

Absolutely gorgeous, though the spread is the same on all pages. Could get monotonous after  while, but I could possibly alternate with the sepia Pilot Plumix (once I fix the jammed-too-far-into itself cartridge; last week was not good for refilling fountain pens.)for the sake of variety. Still thinking on that one, and I do  have some time. I’d prefer to use something already on hand, but there are some lovely books out there, so the field is still open. Maybe I’ll even find I didn’t imagine the black, white and red Paris book.

When the time comes, the book will be there. This time around, I’m going to increase my days to seven rather than six. I’ve found I miss doing daily pages on Sundays, and have toyed with having a special Sunday book (which would press another book into service, so maybe not an entirely bad idea there) but keeping everything one place seems the more efficient option. Who knows? I’ll know when it’s time. That’s part of this whole finding my way part of the journey, and if it’s paved with more notebooks, all the better.

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Winds of Change Edition

annabowling 2 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Today feels like summer, after a week of mostly very cool weather. Right now, Anty and I are next to an open window, with a box fan, which makes it nice and cool. It also ruffles my fur. Anty is easily amused, but I have a sunbeam, so I do not mind.

This week, at Buried Under Romance, Anty talked about the perils and pitfalls of reading and writing independently published romances. Do you read books like that, or write them? Anty is very interested to find out. That post is here and it looks like this:

BUR

 

Anty will have a whole new post up tomorrow, about what it is like to discover new reading adventures, so be sure to stop by Buried Under Romance and join the conversation. Anty is nosy and likes to know what other people are reading, especially since she has been making it a point to do a lot more reading of her own, these days. Even though there are still the same number of hours in every day, (do not think Anty has not looked into ways of getting around that, including but not limited to spending less time asleep) she recognizes that the way she manages those hours goes a long way to making them as effective as possible. While it is true that, to have a novel writing career, there must be completed novels (have you ever been in a store that does not have products to sell? Would those stores stay in business? Probably not, but. then again, I am a kitty, so do not go by me here.) it is also true that trying to draw water from an empty well is about as smart as trying to handle a full day on little to no sleep.

This means that Anty has to slam the breaks on some habits that do not serve her purpose, and pick up others that do. One of those habits is reading. Anty remembers a time when she almost always had her nose in a book if she was not actually writing. Anty also remembers that this was before there was Internet, and time spent doing one thing is time spent not doing another. Combine this with the look the people vet gave Anty when she told him how many hours per day she looks at a computer screen, and Anty knows what she has to do here. Story in, story out, she always says, and it is true. If a human wants their car to run, they have to put gas into it, and it is the same with writers. if Anty wants to create stories, she has to take them in as well, not only for entertainment, but to see what others are doing in her field, as well as outside of it. (When I say “field,” I mean genre. Anty does not have a field like farmers have fields.)

It is also important to take in new stimuli. Anty calls this the magpie stage, and she says that it is for the beginning of a project, but it is really for all the time. One of her Spotify lists is for miscellaneous songs that she likes, but has not assigned to any one particular story. Listening to the songs on that list tells her brain it is time to do new things, and, in time, songs will sort themselves, either into other lists, or groupings within this one.  Some songs take a long time to decide where they belong, and that is okay. Anty has time.

Today, Anty spent some time, after she wrote her morning pages, looking through her notebook crates (she has two of them here in the apartment) because, in about two weeks, she will be all done with her current morning pages book. That means it is time to decide on a new one. So far, she has three possible candidates, but do not quote her on that. She prefers when her morning pages books have alternating two page spreads, but only a few -really about two, maybe three- of the books she has on hand actually do. Which means that she either needs to pick one of those (even if the spreads are kind of funny and some have grids instead of lines and some have no lines at all, only designs) or alter a book with spreads that are all the same. Whichever way Anty goes with this, it will be a new adventure, since every notebook has its own personality.

It feels appropriate to be moving to a new morning pages book when things are changey overall, and she has accepted that moving toward the finished draft of Her Last First Kiss is going to happen at its own pace, even if she wishes it were faster. That is okay. The first time doing anything always takes the longest, because that is when the human is learning how to do it. For Anty, it is re-learning. Similar, but not the same, with enough of a difference to ensure there are still interesting discoveries to be made. That is actually a place where Anty feels fairly comfortable, ready to hit her stride.

Speaking of which, she is making those ruffly noises with her papers, which tell me that had better be about it for this week. Until next time, I remain, very truly yours,

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Until next week…

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

Phantoms

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Ichabod and Abbie get me on this one. I’m in a mood. It will pass. It already is. Getting into the swing of the day, taking a look at what needs to get done today, and in what order I would like to do it, all generally work together to turn things around. My mom was right; the more I do, the more I’ll want to do. Which is where things are going. Left foot, right foot, and all of that journey of a thousand miles stuff.

What got me in a mood wasn’t one thing, but a combination of things, and, as much as I’d like to say it was the state of the world, or something big like that, it wasn’t. Consider it another nibbled to death by ducks moment, and a good sign that I really do need to keep my head down and eyes on my own paper when I’m tempted to do otherwise. Not a good thing for us over-thinkers, but an occupational hazard. The minutiae don’t matter. What does matter was that I landed on the fact that I’m not where I’d hoped to be at this stage of the game, career-wise. Life happens. Life happened (egads, did it happen) and, as I have found out, does not have a reverse gear. There’s only forward from here.

Which is where the phantoms come into play. I don’t think the specifics matter here, either, and I’m not going to tie myself up trying to word things in exactly the right way (because, newsflash, there isn’t one.) Attempting to use something that isn’t there anymore, wanting to talk with someone who isn’t there anymore, adapting to the not-there-ness and finding out what goes there instead; again, not easy, and I doubt anybody actually picks that, but, as with anything else, the more exercise a muscle gets, the stronger it gets. The more ingrained a habit becomes, the easier it is to slip into autopilot, because a new pattern has formed, and we know what comes next and next and next.

The thing is, and this is not always entirely a bad thing, those in between times. Leaning on the right side of the staircase when going downstairs in a new house, for example, because, even though the railing is on the left side now, it was on the right side in the last house, and the pattern is that strong. I suspect part of this bent may be due to getting the old desktop back into play. Some of the files on that hard drive need to go away, whether to a jump drive or the trash bin may depend on the individual files, but there are phantoms there. Story things I tried that didn’t have it in them to go all the way, other things that are too strongly tied to times/places I don’t want to revisit, and yet too close to eliminate entirely. The phantoms don’t do much, exactly. More like lurk there, on the outskirts, cock their heads at what I’m doing here, disturbing their rest. Some of them may well wander back off into the mist at some point, and others will adapt, take on a new form and make tentative motions in my general direction.

If what I come away from all this rooting around in the bowels of electronics past is that I’m not where I wanted to be, then that’s a good thing. It points me in the direction of where I want to go. The destination hasn’t changed, and it can still be reached the same left foot, right foot, way. Some of those steps will, of necessity, be taken with figurative phantom limbs. Those will hurt, until they don’t. At some point, what’s new now will become how it’s always been. Set a course, stick to it, keep moving in that specific direction, and there will be a point of arrival. I’m learning.

This wasn’t meant to be such a meandery post, and I’m not intending it to be a mopey one, merely splashing about in the shallows, getting bearings and finding the lay of the land in this new season. What I wanted was to get to my magic seven hundred, because then I get to go play with my imaginary friends. Mission accomplished.

 

Closer to Fine

annabowling 2 Comments

To live a creative life, we must lose our fear of being wrong.
~ Joseph Chilton Pierce

I have no idea what to write here. Seriously, nothing, but I have less than an hour before writing time begins, so I’m jumping in here, Hypercritical Gremlins muzzled, at least for the moment. If everything I write is going to be wrong, then, does it really matter what I put down? Nope. So anything’s good then. My blog, my rules. Which means, most likely, that I am going to free-form ramble here, until I reach my magic seven hundred words and can hit post.

Today’s workspace picture is kind of cheating, because I’m writing this entry on my laptop. Old desktop (her name is Dahlia) can’t keep up with this newfangled interweb, so she doesn’t do anything that involves talking to other computers. She has Word, though, and Word Pad, so she’s perfectly fine for story stuff, and, with her nice big screen, inspirational photos are much more visible than on a smaller screen, so point Dahlia. I can use my phone for Spotify, a floor lamp pilfered from the living room (and kind of in the middle of this one) for a light source and I am ready to roll. The chair situation is another makeshift arrangement, as it’s a folding camp chair with a squished-flat pillow for a cushion. Not ideal-ideal, but it has a cup holder, and that’s worth something.

Making do and keeping on seem to be a theme at the moment, so I’m going with it. Hopefully, this will turn into some coherent blogging. This past Saturday, our CRRWA meeting’s topic was self-publishing, which I found interesting and plan to find useful, but, right now, my job is to get my current manuscripts done. Head down, eyes on my own paper, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, until I reach my destination. It’s got to the point where I’m looking at things differently. I can’t do NaNo style word count goals. I can’t. One way ticket to paralysis right there, and I am not taking that trip one stinking more time. Nope, nope, nope.  Won’t do it, can’t make me.

What works instead is my usual method of jumping in and flailing about until, at some point that always surprises me, I’m not flailing anymore. I know what I’m doing. I look forward to spending time with Hero and Heroine, rather than agonizing over meeting a number or smashing my head against a brick wall, trying to make the voices in my head do what I want. They’d rather do what they want, thankyouverymuch, and the best way I can help them is to follow them around with pen and paper and write down what they do. Jabber about it with like-minded friends who can help me figure out the stuff that isn’t immediately obvious, and then write that down, too. Usually with pen and paper, and then I can transcribe into Scrivener or Word.

Do not ask me right now which one I prefer, because I don’t know. This time, last year, I was one hundred percent a Scrivener convert, but the last couple of days, working in Word has felt like sinking into a warm, relaxing bath. No bells, no whistles, only me and my imaginary friends, having a darned good time, each party bringing us that much closer to our goal of living Happily Ever After.

This morning, I woke to the sound of Skye’s zoomies, which almost always portend her use of her excretory system. I took care of feline output and input, made myself a cup of tea, and booted Dahlia, to see what I could accomplish before the day began in earnest. I’d forgotten how much I’d missed being able to do that, get up before the rest of the house, shut the door, turn on a light and…go. Rather nice, that, and satisfying, as well, to save, shut down, and walk away. Or stay, if I’m so inclined, and open a book at that very same desk, and visit someone else’s imagination for a while, rather than being rushed hither and yon, only able to scan a paragraph or two before my attention is needed and/or wanted elsewhere. I could get used to this.

If I had to describe my process right now in only two words, those two words would be, “in flux.” It’s a changey time, new things coming into play, old things rediscovered, both of them mushing together to make something that hasn’t been there before. I don’t always know what’s going on, but the process of curating what does and what does not, has turned out to be an extremely intuitive endeavor. Enough light for the next step is all that I need, as long as I keep on going.

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