writing

Playing Hooky (Well, Sort Of)

annabowling 4 Comments

Today, I played hooky. Well, sort of played hooky. I’m writing this entry, after all, and after I’m done, I kind of sort of want to drop in on Hero and Heroine for a little bit. You know, to see how they’re doing, and all. Make sure they don’t feel too neglected after the weekend, that sort of thing. Touch base. Set up for tomorrow.

I didn’t start out intending to shirk responsibility. I got up early, had breakfast with Housemate, and tackled some email before lugging a load of laundry to the Laundromat, which is where the whole hooky thing started. There’s reading I should be doing (aha, there’s that sneaky should) for pending posts on other blogs, and there’s writing I owe, and good gravy, is there work to be done on both Her Last First Kiss and the Beach Ball, but I’m also feeling rather crispy crittered, as Real Life Romance Hero would put it. The bits of conference workshops on recovering the joy of reading and writing pounded at the inside of my skull, and so, with a reckless abandon, I called up one of the books on my phone. Not the eARC I should be reading, but Jezebel’s Blues, by Barbara Samuel, a classic contemporary romance I’ve been wanting to read for years, because A) it’s set in her Gideon, Texas world that I first discovered in The Sleeping Night, a twentieth-century historical romance/women’s fiction with a contemporary frame, and B) I am twirling-around-in-circles-in-fields-of-daisies in love with both her use of language and skill in finding the intimate emotion of the story. In short, I needed it. Needed to get out of my head and into my heart, because, you know, romance writing and all.

So, I started reading . The voice and the story washed over me like the river whose flood brings Eric and Celia together in Jezebel’s Blues. Oh, yes. This is why I love romance. This is why I write. This is what feels like the most natural thing in the world. This is what I want and need to be doing when I sit down to work. The dryer cycle ended before I even knew, and I closed the reading app with great reluctance. Still, the story simmered.

This was Real Life Romance Hero’s day off, and, crispy crittered as he was himself (both Mother’s Day weekend and graduation weekend are tough on the restaurant business) he asked if I’d like to have lunch at a local pub we’ve been meaning to get back to for long enough that, when we were seated, they had a whole new menu. We had this:

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I had a Diet Coke, he had a Guinness, we spent some time focusing on each other. Talked about how we wanted to address the whole desktop situation, since the original plan fell through, and the laptop is feeling the strain. Plus, I miss my Sims, and we’d both like to take a shot at Fallout 4 and Skyrim. I throw out the idea that maybe we could just hang together after lunch, watch a little TV at home, and then I can come back fresh at this whole writing thing tomorrow. We debated taking a walk through the park, for baby waterfowl watching, but nixed that, due to the strong wind chill. It’s May, and we refuse to be cold in May. So, home, Kitchen Nightmares, and…here I am.

With permission to kick off and do nothing, I reached for the laptop to fill some pages, not because I had it on the schedule, not because I should, but because that’s what I  want to do. No pressure, just the fun of putting my imaginary friends through the wringer, because I know it’s going to be worth it in the end. For them, and for me. I didn’t feel deprived. I didn’t feel distracted. I didn’t feel dry, or as though I had to drag individual words out of nowhere. I felt…relaxed. Natural. In touch with my story brain. This day of giving myself some space and taking in what I want to put out may not have been that wasteful after all. Maybe I need to do this more often.

 

Technically, this is last Wednesday

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Technically, this is last Wednesday’s post. I’m not comfortable with a backlog like that, and I’m still figuring out when I’m going to fit in the post that should have gone up yesterday (I keep track of this sort of thing) because Friday is Skye’s day to post. It will happen, though, because I’m antsy when I have a backlog, so pushing through and filling that space with something -most likely nonsensical babble, and maybe even a video post if I’m truly stuck for material, which I may well be. It’s been one of those weeks. Couple of weeks. I’d planned to come back from the conference, fresh out of the gate, ready to implement the tools gathered at the conference, and…life happened.

I’ve started and deleted this post more times than I care to count, because I’m not sure what the story is that I want to tell on this Thursday morning. The work for Her Last First Kiss, that I know. That’s one of the good things about having an outline. I do have to bump back the date for finishing my bullet point draft, because the last two weeks were full of domestic tornadoes. These are new patterns forming, as life in general goes into a new season. It’s only natural that this is going to carry over into the writing life as well.

Right now, it looks as though the new-to-me desktop will be arriving at some point next week, and I am looking forward to that. I have plans to move one of the bookcases from my office, into the living room, to make room for a computer desk that we need to get out of storage, along with the good office chair. That would be one with back support, though I do have the ergonomic chair (the sort where one doesn’t sit, but kneels) that I love, but when used with my secretary desk, rather than  regular desk, does not work at all. The current plan is to put a regular desk in the bookcase’s place, office chair on wheels in the middle, secretary desk on the other side, so that I can swivel from one desk to the other.  This means that a good chunk of the weekend is going to be spent getting the office ready for the new arrival, which should be an experience in itself.

Okay, about halfway into the magic 700 here, well, more than that, and I still have no idea what I want to talk about. Which means that I plow onward, babbling without purpose, because that’s purpose enough, getting my fingers moving on the keyboard and priming the pump. Some days, that’s easier, some days, it’s  harder, and some days, like today, it’s neither. The groove I want to get into is there, somewhere, but it’s not going to let me know where it is or how to get there. I will, though. Been here before, gotten through it every time, so odds are that I’m going to make it out this time, too.

On Sunday, when the optometrist attempted small talk whilst poking me in the eyeball, he asked me what I wrote. I answered that I wrote fiction, blogged about romance in books and TV for a publisher’s blog, led book discussions on another, and maintained my own blog about the writing life, his answer was, “wow, you write a lot.” Cue sound of record player needle skidding along some vintage vinyl. Huhwuh? It doesn’t feel that way, sometimes. Sometimes, it’s all too easy to do the math when the Hypercritical Gremlins gleefully circle the date of my most recent novel release in glaring yellow highlighter, and get stuck there. Those times, thankfully, are getting shorter and farther apart.

It’s been said we shouldn’t look backward, because we aren’t going that way, and in this case, I’m going to say I agree with that. I can’t move that date on the calendar, but I can take the yellow highlighter away from the Gremlins and toss it out the window. I can take a big black Sharpie and mark off, instead, my goal date for finishing this draft. I can track my progress in a way that makes sense for me, and that makes me excited to open the notebook or file every day, instead of dread it, because look how far behind I am.

Since it’s not yet been a full week with the new glasses, I’m still a wee bit surprised when I catch my own reflection, because that’s not what I’m used to seeing. That’s not the way it’s always been. The new hair color, I’m used to that now, and hey, looking pretty good on that one. It’s the same with writing. I’m not used to the new schedule yet, the new tracking, the new support system, and even the new media. It’s not yet been a year with the new laptop, but enough of the keys now have no letters on them to make me kind of proud when I look down at the keyboard. I don’t need them. My fingers know where the keys are, and I’m looking at the screen, anyway.

There will be a learning curve with the new desktop, the new office configuration, the new schedule and all of the rest, but what’s most important is something that isn’t going to change. My love of the story is going to be the same, no matter what else is going on, and I can’t wait to see what Hero and Heroine’s love story looks like in its final form. The only way to get there is butt in chair, fingers on keyboard, pen on paper, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, no, I can’t, I’m writing. Lather, rinse, repeat until the tale is told. Then on to the next one.

 

 

 

I Can See Clearly Now: An Allegory

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On Friday night, my glasses fell apart in my hands. I didn’t do anything to them, only took them off, and the left lens clattered into the sink. No biggie, I figured, and kept calm as I retrieved the lens. The screw had been loose for some time, so likely enough I hadn’t remembered to tighten it that day. All I’d have to do would be stick the lens back in, maybe find the screw if it had also fallen out, use my thumbnail as an impromptu screwdriver, and I’d be back in business. Easy. Only, that’s not how it went.

The screw was perfectly fine, but the left arm of the frame dangled at an odd angle, the frame itself having snapped. Well. This was a pickle. No, I did not have a backup pair, and no, I did not have contacts. My Saturday was already booked full; CRRWA meeting in the morning, Tulip Festival date with Real Life Romance hero, to begin the second I got back from the meeting, and then an online viewing party for a favorite TV show with friends who are similarly inclined. None of this was going to be easy when all I could see were blurry blobs of color.

Even so, I tried, because I am me. I have two friends in the medical field who are super sure I actually broke my right foot during Caregiveapalooza, and, since there was no time to get myself checked out, I bound my own foot and hobbled around as best I could. So, I would do the same thing here. I first tried using a binder clip to keep the lens in the broken frame, which was serviceable enough for an hour or two, but uncomfortable. Next attempt was electrical tape, which technically kept the lens in the frame, but also wreaked havoc with my peripheral vision and depth perception. Also, the corners of electrical tape, when poking one in the eye socket and/or cheekbone, provide a feeling I am going to describe as discomfort, but I was not going to miss that meeting. (Heather McGovern spoke on using character and conflict to heighten the black moment, and I am all about the black moments.)

Twice, at the meeting, I jumped in surprise when friends approached me from the left. I did not see them there. Clearly, this was not going to be a workable solution, but I took notes as best I could and will compare them with a friend’s later, to catch anything I missed. Friend was able to drop me in front of my house, despite the festival traffic, and, after  short pit stop, I informed Real Life Romance Hero he was going to be my guide for the afternoon; we were going to be holding hands the entire time, and not just to show affection. He told me he’d been planning on doing exactly that. Good man.

If you’ve never attended an outdoor festival sans corrective lenses, let me give you an overview. There will be a lot of shapes and colors coming at you from all directions, and you will not be able to tell what they are. Assume they are people, and none of them know you can’t see a thing beyond blobs. There will be a small twinge of apprehension, because, if you let go of the hand you’re holding, you are likely going to be toast. After a while, you’ll start to get a feel for what it’s like; you’ve traversed this ground before, under different circumstances, so maybe you’ll be only lightly toasted, not actual toast, if your guide parks you someplace somewhat out of the way-ish, to get a couple of the best hot dogs on earth. You learn to ask questions when needed. Are there condiments? (this is always an important question) What about napkins? Is that a dog? (most of the time it was a dog; once it was a small child. Real Life Romance Hero thought that was vastly amusing.)Since I can see only blobs, will someone else please take a picture? Things like that. Food still tastes good, company still good, and questions posed to festival staff will help point you in the right direction when you suspect a favorite vendor may be present, but cannot see them because blobs of color and all that. A few modifications, but you still come home with a purse full of kettle corn and a tower of horseradish samplers, so still good.

If you’re suspecting I’m going to turn this into some allegory on writing, you’re right. Housemate and I spent the entirety of Sunday at the optometrist. The utter destruction of my former spectacles garnered some interesting comments from the staff, who were sympathetic and understanding of the entire affair. They even worked out a small discount and pushed to get me lenses that day, rather than let me swim through the fog any longer than I absolutely had to, so, overall, a positive experience there. There is the matter of something the optometrist found and would like to keep an eye (pun intended) on and discuss later, but that’s another story.

What this story is about is clarity of vision. BFF and I took a lunch break, then as soon as she steered be back into the room, I heard a chipper “They’re ready! We did it!” BFF steered me to the appropriate seat, and the person who first greeted my foggy-eyed self rushed over to see the end result. Staff member handed me my new frames, I put them on and there it was. Sight. That’s what the world looks like. Relief. Adjustment, because my brain had started to figure out how to maneuver around the blobs of color, but having the right outlook makes it all that much easier to go about my life.

It’s like that with writing, as well. The colored blobs of uncorrected vision can be like all the vague ideas that come at a writer in the early stages of a new project. Who’s that? What’s that doing there? Where are we going in this strange new land? Are there condiments? Genre can be a guide. I write romance. I know where this is going. My lovers are going to get through all obstacles, to go home together, and happy to be there. I’ve been this way before. I’ve written romance novels. I read them. I know where this is going, and I know I’m going to get there, so I can trust myself and my guide and enjoy the experience. Not too bad a lesson to learn (relearn?) when I’m pumped from conference, meeting, and have a new-to-me desktop on the way. Think somebody is trying to tell me something here?

 

 

 

Home Again, Home Again

annabowling 4 Comments

Welp, NECRWA 2016 is now a memory, conference clothes have been (mostly) laundered, I still have to put swag away/distribute specific items to those who have called dibs, and follow up on contacts made over the course of the weekend.  I have notes on Beach Ball to transcribe, as Melva and I outlined four scenes on the drive back, and a wealth of information from some excellent workshops to implement. Pictures taken during the conference are in my phone, but taking their time to actually show up in my email, so I may have to wing it for today’s entry, and show the pretties on Wednesday.

Which is fine, actually, because taking a good, hard look at how things actually work is part of my takeaway from the conference. One of several, really, some tangible objects, others not, but I want to get some impressions down here before the rest of the week intrudes. Sunday, I was a slug under my duck blankey, awake long enough only to consume food Real Life Romance Hero (himself also a slug, but a really handsome one) had delivered because neither of us was up to operating complicated machinery like stoves or toasters or microwaves. I had plans to read, because reading is something I need to make more time for, as reading is absolutely part of the writing process. Reading turned to napping under the blankey while half-listening to (watching would require open eyes) Bar Rescue on whatever channel plays that show. Food Network? I should know that, but I don’t. Real Life Romance Hero had control of the remote, which was fine, because :points to duck blankey reference.:

Today was Monday, which became a transition day. Laundry, following up on contacts, planning and organization, and going over the notes from the awesome workshops I attended on Saturday. It feels like I’m getting my house in order and doing homework at the same time. That all fits with the sense of entering a new season. I’m not talking about spring, even though of course, that’s happening at the same time, but life in general.

Susan Mallery gave a wonderful workshop on writing more, which is definitely one of my goals. Encouragingly, it would appear I’m doing some things right: writing at the same time each day; paying more attention to how I put a book together, rather than what works for anybody else; and paying special attention to what books I love and what books I hate. Which books were a joy to write, and which ones made me want to shove pencils in my eyes, because that would be less painful? Since I like lists and schedules, some of her tips in that department, which she warned might be “really scary” for some participants, actually got me pumped to put them into motion. Anything that gives me a reason to start a new notebook is okay by me. This workshop also helped me decide that today would be the transition/organization/planning day. I like to know what I’m doing, when I’m doing it, how it’s going to get done, and then let me at it.

Tanya Michaels’ workshop on surviving setbacks was the perfect chaser, because that is also pertinent to my interests. Every writer is going to have some setbacks, some disappointments, some detours. Every writer is going to get thrown from the metaphorical horse. The key is getting back up, and getting back on; basic, yes, but important to hear, and important to find out the steps to take to figure out which way “up” actually is for that particular circumstance. Again, the key seems to be finding out what works for the individual and sticking with that. I loved hearing that yes, it is okay to have a core story. Watching Tanya display book after book after book and happily announce that they were all about a cowboy and a single mom, a cowboy and a single mom, a cowboy and a single mom, etc, struck a note. I don’t write about cowboys or single parents, but it’s the principle of the thing. Have the core story, and find new ways to tell it. That, I can do.

Donna Alward gave a wonderful workshop on creating character cheat sheets, which sheet I need to request, as they were hot properties, and with good reason. Joanna Shupe, whose Magnate, the first in her Knickerbocker series of Gilded Age New York historicals, I am currently reading, spoke on writing the intricacies of writing physical intimacy. Since Melva and I needed to get on the road halfway through, we’re going to have to pester friends for details on what we missed by leaving early, but that’s one of the best takeaways from these conferences; friends.

This year, Melva and I wound up at a table full of super fun, talented women, with whom we instantly bonded. Some, we’d met before, at other dinners, from other conferences, and some were new-met, but we clicked at dinner and stuck together through the weekend, and, now, that we’re released back into the “real world,” ready to put theory into practice, we’re sticking with each other here, as well. A new chapter begins.

 

 

 

 

 

Call and Answer

annabowling 2 Comments

Today almost ended up being a video blog, but I know myself, and that’s going to have to wait for later. What’s on my mind today is -are?- a bunch of things. There’s no time tomorrow, the last day before the conference, to sneak in an entry, and so it needs to be today. I have one ear open for the doorbell (as if anyone can miss a big ol’ prewar doorbell that vibrates the walls and scares the stuffing out of the cat…and the me, because yikes, that thing is loud. Effective, though.) because I’m waiting for a delivery for something Real Life Romance Hero ordered and the rest of my head is…not scattered, exactly. Lets call it multitasking.

We’ll jump right to something from my morning pages (in italics):

That’s where I feel I am now, coming back home in a different season of my life . A lot of things are changing. Some people who were always there, are now elsewhere. New people have moved into some of the vacant houses. At some point, this will be the way it’s always been.

Last night, I chatted with a writer friend, about a scene in her WIP, the emotions so finely honed that it viscerally shook me, made me first think A) well, crap, I can’t top that, and then B) I want to do that. Not top her work, because it’s not a contest. What I do want is to create my own version of that. Get that kind of response. Be that deeply involved with the characters and emotions and elicit the vivid sensory images. That kind of thing.

Her scene affected me so much that, a good night’s sleep, walk through the park, daily pages and half a blog entry later, part of me is still back there, not yet ready to leave it. Wanting to draw some of that in and make it my own and put it back out, mingled with my people and my era and their story and and and and…yeah. Writers, you know what I mean. Readers-who-do-not-write, it’s too late for us; save  yourselves.

It’s not the only thing that  has me under the influence, either. There’s a new picture in my inspiration folder, that I’m still not sure why I like it as much as I do, but I keep coming back to it, so there is something in there, even if I don’t know, at this point, what it is. I don’t have to know; figuring that out is part of the journey. There will be time spent staring at it, thinking about it, isolating different parts so that I can see them from different perspectives, trying on and discarding lyrics and quotes and looking at and looking away and thinking and feeling and not-thinking and not-feeling and putting it on the back burner until it tells me.

That’s all part of this homecoming process, knowing that, sometimes, the story tells me, rather than the other way around. It’s the difference between pushing and pushing and pushing and pushing and pushingpushingpushingpushing on a door, and reading the sign that says “pull.” Then pulling, et voila, open door. Funny how that works.

I keep coming back to this idea of homecoming, this place that is familiar-but-not. Keep coming back to the magpie stage, gathering this and that and incorporating it into what I already know. Into what I don’t yet know. It’s…not weird. Not strange. Not familiar, either, but familiar all the same. It’s part of the process. Knowing that not-knowing what I’m doing is exactly what I need to be doing, and knowing that it’s going to be different every time. Knowing that that difference is always going to be a constant. Knowing that, even though I may shy at this jump, I’ve taken it before, and  I can certainly take it again. Knowing that another lap of the place is what I need to build up the speed for that jump. Knowing that my metaphors are going to muddle. Knowing that they are going to mingle, along with pictures I don’t know why I like, songs that grab me from the first note, the scent that grabs the reins of my attention and pulls hard while I’m doing something completely unrelated, and, without my conscious effort, there I am, fully absorbed in the world of the story. Inside the characters’ skins, living their story with them. That’s home.

 

 

 

 

Coming in out of the Cold

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Monday afternoon, cold still hanging in there, but negotiating its exit strategy. We will see how that goes. No idea right now what I want to blog about today, so I am going to jump in and blabber and it will go where it goes. Which is, of course, the magic seven hundred words for the mandatory entry. I could bump this entry back to tomorrow, as I know I get two hours of uninterrupted time after my weekly meeting with N (note to self – bring Mont Blanc and standard cartridge so I can figure out what the heck I’m doing wrong in inserting the darned thing. Seriously, I’ve tried both ends, and nada. Scratchety-scratch on the paper, but no ink after I ran through the mystery dregs of the old ink that somehow missed getting rinsed out when I flushed it during a rare moment of clarity over the weekend. That’s flushed with warm water in the kitchen sink, not in the bathroom bowl. Even at prime coldbrain, I would not do that.)

Okay, pens. I can talk about pens.  The Pilot Namiki cartridges did come on Saturday, and went into the Plumix like a dream, so I have my very first fountain pen back in action. Possible review to follow, because that feels like a natural progression, and it really is an easy to use pen, plus the sepia ink is gorgeous. We will not talk about my adventures trying to put the Jinhao (international standard size) cartridge in the Mont Blanc, even though that should have fit. It probably does, and it was operator error. Hence plans to consult N, who actually knows what she’s doing with the whole fountain pen thing.

I promise that I will talk about things that are not pens, but can be done with pens, namely, writing, once I get my full brain back. Going through the process of writing down anything, as with both my morning pages and blabbery blogging, even without a plan set out beforehand, is a big help in that direction. As a once upon a time writing group facilitator, J, used to remind those of us in her group, the practice begets the product. Or something like that. Like I said, I am not fully back yet. Too fuzzy, don’t remember version – put pen to paper and/or fingers to keyboard and write something. Anything. Sooner or later, writing will kick in and something will start to make sense, fictional or otherwise.

One step at a time kind of thing, the left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot kind of thing.  With the conference only a matter of days away now, there are going to be questions asked by new friends and old, and the answers aren’t always what I wish I were giving at this stage of the game. Am I signing this year? That’s one of them. Answer I give, with game smile: “Not this year.” Answer my Hypercritical Gremlins want to give: :hysterical laughter, breaking down into wrenching sobs that give way to sniffles: They, obviously, are not my biggest supporters, and are quick to remind me that my current crop of titles are A) not all that current, and B) electronic exclusives. Neither making it all that easy to sign, but that’s okay. That’s this stage of the game. That’s this year.

This year, I am at work on one novel and one novella, and cast periodic glances at the post-apocalyptic medieval novella, suspended in mid-revision. Next year, I can have up to three manuscripts ready to make the rounds. That’s pretty darned good. Yay, me. This is not a race. Success and happiness and all that other good stuff are not finite quantities. All the hundreds of other writers and publishing professionals in attendance are proof of that. All the books laid out at our seats every meal and given away as prized in baskets and at workshops and for sale at the literacy signing are proof of that. Every one of those was, at one point, butt in chair and fingers on keyboard. Every one of those was an idea. Every one of those was a “what if?” Every one of those was a “I wonder if I can…” Every one of those was a “I’m going to show up and put something on the paper/screen today.” I can’t think of anything more encouraging than that.

 

 

 

Spring Sicko

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Yesterday morning, I woke at my regular time, feeling like I’d been run over by a truck. No energy, sandpaper throat, hot and cold running nostrils. I decided to drag myself out of bed and do laundry anyway, because A) I am a big ol’ stoic, and B) I was convinced that a couple of hours in Laundromat B (Laundromat A is the one kitty corner from our house, Laundromat B, a few blocks away) with its calm atmosphere and the promise of clean clothing would make me feel better. I was wrong.

The near-weeping-with-joy moment when I found a forgotten licorice cough drop in the bottom of my bag should have been a sign. I am not always good at reading this kind of sign. I used the time to make some notes on the current writing and make some headway on reading a book pertinent to an upcoming Heroes and Heartbreakers post, washed, dried, folded, and headed home. I should have known something was up when Real Life Romance Hero met me at the door. He and Housemate were going to run a few quick errands, and did I want to come, or stay home and get some work done? I elected to go, because extroverted me would rather die in misery around people than die in misery alone.

Errands ended up taking a solid eight hours, six if we don’t count the two I insisted on spending in Panera, because I had a scheduled conference with Critique Partner Vicki, and was not going to miss that. To my surprise, I actually got something done, but did pay for it later. Today, I have no voice, am going through tissues at an impressive rate, and consistent awake-ness is not one of my strengths. I am vaguely amused by all of this.

 

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Real Life Romance Hero provided French toast therapy.

 

 

There’s still writing and reading to do. The ink cartridges for the Jinhao pen (currently using a converter on that one) arrived, and I want to see if they would fit the MontBlanc. The Pilot cartridges should be here any time now, and you bet I am stopping whatever I am doing at the time, to stick one of those babies in my Plumix and take it for a spin. A new friend asked me for a short story for her birthday, which is next week, so there is that. I am rambling here, and that’s fine, because it still counts for the blog entry. I still have my morning pages to write, and then it’s time to visit with Hero and Heroine, puzzling my way along to that bullet point draft in June, which now seems super close, yet still do-able.

While writing an email a few minutes ago, it hit me that the NECRWA conference is…next week. I’m not pitching this year, because I have learned we do not pitch books that are not completed yet. Head down and eyes on my own paper with HLFK and novella, and then, next year, I will have two projects to pitch, if they haven’t found homes already. Three, if I want to dust off Ravenwood and see what I want to do with that. I think I still need some time and distance there, but one never knows. One of the best things about a conference is that there are people there who are as excited about the types of books I love as I am. There are people there who want to buy what I want to sell.

Conferences are a place where a stranger can become a friend in an instant, when the answer to a generic “what’s your all time favorite romance novel?” asked of everybody at the table gets a joyous squeal from a few seats down, because that’s my favorite book, too, and we must now discuss it at length, quote favorite passages, compare and contrast with other books by the same author, by different authors in the same setting or subgenre, and detail how it affected our overall reading and our own writing. Free books and swag don’t hurt at all, either.

Where am I going with all this? Immediately, a nap. I’m thankful that both writer and domestic warrior queen duties mean I don’t have to get out of pajamas when I feel like road kill, and that I can go at my own pace, even when that pace is mostly “pause.”

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Top notch nursing staff makes sure I get my proper rest.

In the Pen

annabowling 4 Comments

I have a lot of pens. I mean a lot of pens. I probably picked up some of this from my dad, who was an artist, as I have vivid memories, still, of sneaking into his studio when I was but a wee princess, stealing various mark-makers (pens, pencils, higher end markers, etc) and putting them back exactly where I had found them so he wouldn’t know I’d even been there. If he did know, he never said, but I do suspect I was mostly successful. My pilfering of his papers was harder to camouflage, because, well, paper, but suffice it to say, if I were a dragon, I have no doubts what I would hoard. Pens and stationery. Well, books, too, but that’s another story. Pun intended.

My family is well aware, that, in case of Walking Dead style zombie apocalypse, we are heading to NYC, because I want to loot the Moleskine store. Also any other stationery vendors we encounter along the way, because Papaya! Art, Punch Studio, Markings, Picadilly, Anna Griffin, etc. I am hardwired for this stuff, and make no apologies.

Most recently, I have fallen down the fountain pen rabbit hole, and am waiting for two different orders of ink cartridges to arrive in the mail. I’ve said before, how writing longhand, and specifically with a fountain pen, adds an extra something to getting in the historical world of my characters -though I can also be found making notes on my phone, so I’m not a total Luddite- and I have seriously considered trying a dip pen, to get even further connected to the methods of writing my characters would have known.

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The fountain pen gang, as it currently stands, minus my Pilot Plumix, which started the whole love affair, and is now in hiding. Perfect timing, as I have an order of sepia cartridges for that particular pen winging their way to me right this very minute. Ahem. Pilot Plumix, Mommy loves and misses you very much. Please come home. All is forgiven.

ETA: My plea worked. Plumix has returned.

Current roster is:

  • six Pilot Varsity disposable-yet-potentially-hackable pens
  • one Pilot Plumix (now out of hiding)
  • one Jinhao (actual name escapes me, but we are in love, okay?)
  • one vintage MontBlanc Noblisse (thanks, Dad)
  • two ink samples, which names escape me.

 

On the way are:

  • blue cartridges for the Jinhao, which currently has a converter and lovely purple ink
  • sepia Pilot Namiki cartridges, for Plumix, which is in hiding. Show of hands who thinks I should order another one for backup?

 

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N has helped me troubleshoot the MontBlanc, and suspects that the reason it’s not drawing ink is that the suction on the converter may be all done, a small rubber part having given all it can. Considering that this pen was made in 1971, I suspect it’s had a good run. I’ve done some research on what refills it might take, and have my eye on a lovely set of burgundy cartridges by MontBlanc. Failing that, it looks like the pen should take international standard size, so there’s that option.

I am very new to the whole fountain pen world, still a wide-eyed newbie, and yet, I have an excitement that sparkles my blood when I babble about, use, look at, research, etc my pens. Inking the MontBlanc or Jinhao is a special ritual, one I look forward to, that honors the writing I do, both personal and commercial. It’s not the tool that makes the craftsman, not by any means, but there is a certain recognition, a this is mine knowledge that goes beyond mind, into heart and soul. Does that have an impact on the content of the writing? For me, I have to say yes.

The featured image  at the top of the page is not a fountain pen, but a rollerball, a gift, as part of a business card holder with plaque, that was a gift from a once-upon-a-time friend. I’d loved the pen, and was disappointed when the ink ran out. I want to say there were a couple of refills included, but that was another life, and the mist is heavy between that time and this. Nevertheless, I hoped I’d track it down someday, and, recently, by accident, I did.

I’d hoped to get a refill for a totally different pen, and picked up the wrong refill. I tried it anyway, but pen and refill were not compatible -different makers- and, again, I was sad. then I had a whim – why not try it on that pen? I did. Perfect match, and, as is super important to those of us who love pens and are not independently wealthy, super affordable. Win-win. I wasn’t sure what I was going to use it for, but, when I sat down this morning to write to a friend, my gaze drifted from the cup of fountain pens, to the glossy black barrel, then down to the pad in front of me. Then the pen was in my hand and we danced. The pen did, that is, and by danced, I mean moved across the paper, but pens don’t do much without hands to move them, and, before I knew it, seven pages were ready to wing their way to their intended recipient. It felt right.

Last night, I chatted via Skype with a writer friend, partly about a scene that wouldn’t come and wouldn’t come and wouldn’t come. The computer had eaten the original document the scene was from, jump-drive-that-is-on-its-last-legs says that copy is corrupted, and really, that’s pretty much a sign when that happens. I told my friend that I knew what I had to do next. Shut off the word processing program, plug in my earbuds, and break out pen and paper. Time to dance.

 

 

 

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Adaptability Edition

annabowling 4 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. It is a very nice sunbeam day, but I am a dedicated mews, and so I am blogging for my Anty anyway. Anty tried to take some pictures of me in the process of fur maintenance (I am in shed, because it is spring) but I kept moving, so she could not get a good image. I do not always have good fur days when I am in shed, like  I am right now. Uncle tried to help by getting my attention, but that only made me look at him, not at Anty, who was not interested in photographing the back of my head. Note that I did not say who I was helping. Anty gave me treat anyway, because I am cute, so I do not see a problem here.

Anty had an interesting morning today, because she went to two different Laundromats. Normally, she goes to the one that is kitty corner to our house (I cannot see too much out of the window, because it is high and I am a floor girl, but if Anty is going to a corner where there are other kitties, when there is a perfectly good me here at home, I am not sure I am okay with that.) and she did, at first, but she did not stay there. Some almost-grownup humans came in, and not to do laundry. Anty was there to do laundry, and to get some writing and/or reading done, neither of which were going to work out well with the almost-grownups not-doing laundry. They way they don’t do laundry is distracting, so she took her load out of the dryer (it was still wet, and there was still time left on the dryer) and walked to the other Laundromat, a few blocks away.

That other Laundromat is very different. It is farther away, for one thing, and bigger, and there is an attendant in the dry cleaner next door, so almost-grownup humans do not feel as free to not-do laundry there. Anty stuck her load in one of those dryers, then sat down nearby the dryer to get back to her writing. Nobody interrupted her, so it was a good session. Anty may consider using this Laundromat more often, because it is a nice walk, and easy to get both laundry and reading/writing done there without any bother. The regular place is closer, though, so she may have to see.

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gratuitous duck picture; ducks make everything better.

 

Anyway, this is the first Friday since Sleepy Hollow made a lot of humans angry with their maybe-season, maybe-series finale. Anty is glad she did not have to recap that episode, because it brought back memories of when she did have to recap the How I Met Your Mother series finale. I will give you one hint as to what both finales had in common: she hated them both. Like really, really, really, saying bad words at the TV hated. Mama thinks Anty should write a blog entry about how angry it makes Anty when (mostly) boy writers think a good romantic ending means one half of the couple dies, or they break up for no reason.

One thing Anty likes about writing  and reading romance novels is that, because we know what the end point is going to be -that the two humans want and get to be together- that means the writer can throw absolutely anything at them on the way there. That is a pretty sweet deal, if you ask me, although I do not know if anyone should ask me about writing romance novels, because, after all, I am a kitty. Maybe ask Anty instead. Anty loves to talk about writing and about romance novels. She especially loves to talk about writing romance novels, so if you ask her about that, I hope you have brought some tea, and probably some gummi bears. Anty can talk a really long time when she gets going, and it does not take much to get her started.

Although it is never fun to see a TV show, movie, or even book that Anty likes take a sudden turn in the wrong direction – especially cutting off a romantic arc with a tragic ending, when the story was not billed as a tragedy in the first place (Anty will admit to being interested in seeing 500 Days of Summer, in which it is allegedly said at the outset that the humans do not end up together; it is okay in cases like that.) or strongly indicating two humans will be happy together, but whoops, no, one is dead now- there is still a good thing that can come out of it.

 

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Updates? Notebook, you’re on!

 

 

Bad and/or disappointing endings in other works can still be good for a writer because they are a natural call to playing the what-if game. What if things had gone differently? What if the human who left did not leave? What if the human who died had not died? What would have happened next, in the natural (or supernatural, if it is that kind of story) course of events? What unexpected thing could happen so that the humans still have (or still can have) each other, but the story would not yet be over? One of the superpowers writers have is that they can make up different endings for stories where they do not like the ending that was given, and, more than that, they can make that be the beginning of a whole new story of their own.

A little bit of a favorite TV show, a little bit of a disappointing movie, snatches of songs and whiffs of scents, a few interesting images from media and real life, an assortment of other things, let them sit for a while until they are ready to filter through keyboard or pen, and a whole new story can be born. Sometimes, this happens right away, and sometimes, it will marinate for a really long time, but, with dedication and discipline, wonderful things can come from all of that. Like I said, pretty sweet deal.

In case you did not see Anty’s post last week at Buried Under Romance (there is a new topic every Saturday,) on the effect character names can have on the reading experience, you can still read -and comment on it- here, and it looks like this:

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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)

It Happens

annabowling Leave a comment

Winging it today, because I’ve tried three different openings and none of them stuck. I was going to blog about pens, but I’m waiting on that one until the ink cartridges I ordered arrive. They were due yesterday, so my optimistic side want to say they should be here any day now, and my pessimistic side wants to know when they’re going to get here already. The there’s the suspicious side that wonders if the mail carrier put them in our neighbor’s box instead (I’ve had the pen I ordered at the same time for over a week now) by mistake. Odds are fifty-fifty that I will find them on my doorstep when I arrive home.

Today, I ran a scene from Her Last First Kiss by Critique Partner Vicki, and got back the tough-but-useful sort of response that first stings, but, dangit, does make things better. So, I’ve been doing that, and I like this angle better than what I’d originally had, which may be why it’s harder to come out of the story space to write a blog entry. These things happen. It’s not that I mind, exactly, (the redoing of a scene, that is; I do mind waiting for the ink cartridges, because I am a newly converted fountain pen lover and I want to play with my inky toys, dagnabit) but that, sometimes, getting to The End of a book feels very far away while firmly in The Middle.

Breaking things down into manageable bites helps. All I need to do is focus on one scene at a time, and put them all together in my bullet point draft. It’s messy-ish, may not make sense to people who are not me (or Critique Partner Vicki; N has yet to see one of my bullet point drafts, so we will see how that goes. One day at a time, one foot in front of the other, and we get there. That’s how it works. I’m not nervous about Never Having Another Book Released Ever Again, because that’s not the issue. There will be a next book. There will be next books, plural. I got this. I’ve written books before, I’m writing books now, and will be writing books in the future. I got this. If I don’t find the right fit in traditional publishing, I can go the indie route, and I don’t have to please Every Reader Ever (pretty sure that’s not even possible) – only my readers, so that’s a lot of pressure off, right there.

Finding my readers, well, there’s a thing we can talk about if we want. In publishing years, I’m basically dead starting fresh, it’s been that long since my last release. Life will do that sometimes, and even in the times when I feel like it might be easier to just stay down, as it were, the stories don’t stop coming, the desire to see them published doesn’t go away, so okay. This is what I’m doing. The stories are going to be told. The books are going to happen. That’s not the question here. I certainly hope that readers who like my blog and my articles and other posts would like my fiction as well.

Some won’t, and that’s fine. As the late Eugenia Price once said, not every writer can please every reader; that’s why there are so  many of us.  There’s a lot of truth there, and it helps keep things in perspective. It’s not an “if” in my mind, but a “when.” When the draft is done. When the next draft is done. When the book goes out in the world, to meet a nice publisher and make beautiful book babies, or stride boldly into the teeming throngs on its own, seeking readers where it may find them.

My goal, when I began this iteration of Typing With Wet Nails, was to be honest about the writing experience. It’s rough sometimes, fun other times, sometimes both at once, and every point in between. It’s not something I can put down or turn off (I’ve tried; it did not go well.) It’s something I am. These are the stories I have to tell, and they are the stories that are going to get out of my head and into the hands of readers. Every step in that direction is progress. Including this one.