I am in a grumpy mood this morning. Grump, grump, grump. Not sick enough to be in bed all day, but not well enough to spend the whole day on normal stuff, and is that a cold sore in the making? Harumph. Silly me to think I could make it out of the season with a clean record.

Did the conscientious thing yesterday and stayed home from church to keep my germs to myself. Bummer, since I love our church and our friends there, but since I may have personally raised the stock value of Kleenex, wise move. Figured I'd have the day to grouch around the apartment, play Sims2, read, flip listlessly through basic cable channels and watch nothing. Nuh-uh. Hubby came home four hours early. Which means puttering. Made mistake of asking if he knew if it would rain. This means the scanner goes on and a robot voice reads weather stuff in minute details for a really large area. Also found out I was out of bottled water. About ready to scream when hubby told me the CVS on the corner was closed, so no more bottled until today.

What, then, does this have to do with reading or writing? There hasn't been time for much of either this past weekend, but the time that there is, I've been having a very nice vacation in the Georgian era. I've been getting to know Jo Beverley's Mallorens on one side of the pond, and racing breathlessly through the colonial frontier with the hero and heroine of Pamela Clare's Ride the Fire on the other. Normally I read a lot faster than this, but A) not much reading time, B) feel poopy, and C) they're worth savoring.

All of which has cemented that this is an era I can put down stakes in for a little while. When one part of my brain is entirely devoted to how many more Kleenex are in the box, another part is happily making lists of things the daughter of a prosperous London merchant would need for a betrothal party, where it would be, and why on earth is she actually entertaining the suggestion that she run away with a man she's just met instead.

Also judging my Daphne contest entries. Man oh man but I love judging...except for the moment where it occurs to me that it's eerily close to grading papers. (was an education major in college before life plans changed)

I am in a grumpy mood this morning. Grump, grump, grump. Not sick enough to be in bed all day, but not well enough to spend the whole day on normal stuff, and is that a cold sore in the making? Harumph. Silly me to think I could make it out of the season with a clean record.

Did the conscientious thing yesterday and stayed home from church to keep my germs to myself. Bummer, since I love our church and our friends there, but since I may have personally raised the stock value of Kleenex, wise move. Figured I'd have the day to grouch around the apartment, play Sims2, read, flip listlessly through basic cable channels and watch nothing. Nuh-uh. Hubby came home four hours early. Which means puttering. Made mistake of asking if he knew if it would rain. This means the scanner goes on and a robot voice reads weather stuff in minute details for a really large area. Also found out I was out of bottled water. About ready to scream when hubby told me the CVS on the corner was closed, so no more bottled until today.

What, then, does this have to do with reading or writing? There hasn't been time for much of either this past weekend, but the time that there is, I've been having a very nice vacation in the Georgian era. I've been getting to know Jo Beverley's Mallorens on one side of the pond, and racing breathlessly through the colonial frontier with the hero and heroine of Pamela Clare's Ride the Fire on the other. Normally I read a lot faster than this, but A) not much reading time, B) feel poopy, and C) they're worth savoring.

All of which has cemented that this is an era I can put down stakes in for a little while. When one part of my brain is entirely devoted to how many more Kleenex are in the box, another part is happily making lists of things the daughter of a prosperous London merchant would need for a betrothal party, where it would be, and why on earth is she actually entertaining the suggestion that she run away with a man she's just met instead.

Also judging my Daphne contest entries. Man oh man but I love judging...except for the moment where it occurs to me that it's eerily close to grading papers. (was an education major in college before life plans changed)

After a whole winter of no bugs, colds, cold sores or anything of the sort, whomp, flu. Bleh. Ah well, a good excuse to go back to bed and read, right? Thought so. May also take a crack at reconstructing my first original Sims1 family for Sims2. The house may have to wait a while, since that could be a little ambitious for my fogged brain.

Though as Elise told me, Mounds eggs are great medicine.

Brain not terribly in gear at the moment, but I did dive in and write the first scene of The Wild Rover and started on the next one. Got pounced in the middle of that by some dialog from the next scene, so filled a bunch of index cards with dialog-only (like a script.) I've started a home notebook and a travel notebook for this story (more on that later) and I have the feeling that I might be settling into the Georgian era for a while. I think I could do that quite comfortably.

Two meh days in a row. Not great, not stinky, just meh. Though I did write today. Though nothing that can go in the book. Smeg. I redeemed some of the morning by cracking open one of the pirate research books I got from the library, so that is some work. I also ripped the two longhand pages out of the steno pad and put them on top of the CPU, so I can transcribe either tonight or tomorrow morning. As I said, meh.

Spent much of the weekend reading Neta Jackson's The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Down. I did enjoy it a lot, though there are a few nits to pick. One of them my own fault. This is the second in a series about the same group of women, and I didn't read the first one (it was out at the library, and I was in a mood) so I know I'm missing stuff; will track down books one and three later. I like the group dynamics very much. No Stepford Christians here, but real women from diverse backgrounds who all have their own foibles and issues to deal with. Not all threads are neatly tied, and not everybody gets along. Very real. Though it drives me ba-na-nas when a group of friends has a name and it's used over and over and over and over and over. Yes, yes, I know the group has a name. I will not forget in two pages, I promise. I really won't. Also, I know the group's name comes from the Hebrew "yada" or "yadah" meaning respectively "to know and be known" or "to praise" but it's really really close to Ya-Ya as in Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, and the name of that one bugs me, too. Liked the movie, but the name bugs me. I'm funny that way.

Laundry tonight, which is more meh. Very much looking forward to shutting myself in a warm tub with Pamela Clare's Ride the Fire. American Idol tonight, so that balances out the meh of laundry. Also, we have Strawberry Newtons, always good.

Writing tomorrow for sure. I need to have a new scene for nag group tomorrow night, and I like it to really be new, not something I'd already written and bring along (in the book) but that may have to be the case. I do have a little cushion there.

Couple of new projects in the works -- an article for Italics and Gina from A Hint of Seduction has asked if I'd like to participate in something neat over there. Very much looking forward to those, so more writing there.

May be a little scarce this weekend, as I plan to goof off, read, play The Sims2 and possibly watch bad movies on the Lifetime network. Maybe go for a walk. In short, time to rest and recoup.

I'm looking forward to a good week. The discussions at AAR have discourses floating in my mind about all the virgin widows, fake skanks, faux hos, and first husbands old and/or gay and/or etc. I can think of examples of most of them that have or haven't worked. In the hands of the right writer, almost anything can work, but it does require skill instead of shortcuts.

Saw a good number of historicals on the shelves at various places in my errands this morning, so that was encouraging. I think we are heading into an exciting time for historicals, with more variety, and still a firm spot for the time-tested favorites. Can you tell I love to yap about industry trends? Evenif they aren't things I would normally read or write, I like to at least have a working understanding of why they work for some readers, and what aspects can I play with in my own work, in my own style? Sort of like adapting projects I see in my art magazines to my existing materials.

Hmm. Maybe I'll scan a recent collage to post with my next ramble. Until then, grab some leftover pizza or M&Ms, pour yourself a Diet Coke and feel free to rummange through the lending library. I'll be right back.

Worked on two scenes for Orphans in the Storm today, and the computer ate one. Harumph and hah. Harumph because it's always annoying to see the blue screen of death swallow hard-written words, and hah because I waved my notes and outline in its face and set right about reconstructing the lost parts. Neener, neener, puter. Take that.

I was going to make this a part three in my ongoing rant/musing/apologetic, even had a title for it (If you like the Pina Colada Song) but then the puter ate my pages, and I had to blab about it. All in all a good writing day today; the first scene I worked on has some definite read-through-spread-fingers quality, but that would be needed for what's happening and where they are. The second scene, I had to start for balance, which has a much happier occurance. Kind of like emotional bookends. (btw, "Bookends" is my favorite Simon and Garfunkel song. Except maybe "Overs." That bit about time rattling the teacups gets me every time. Yeah, I think they're tied.)

One of my romance imponderables is the escape/fantasy factor. Or more appropriately put, faaaaaaaantasy. Not the genre that is often stocked with science fiction, but as the DH mentioned last night when I related a questionable comment I'd heard toward romance fiction, "yeah, like good personal relationships aren't real." Thank you, honey. See why I married this man? Plus he can cook.

To me, "escape" has a dramatic, possibly melodramatic tinge to it. What exactly are we supposed to be escaping from, rabid wolves? My first instinct is to lump it with my other word weirdnesses. (Others include: lady, skit and attractive. But those are all other stories entirely.) I'll be the first to admit that during the really sucky times in life, I will at least try to read more, because what better way to give one's mind a break than to travel to another place and time with the sole purpose of being entertained and gauranteed a wonderful romance, but I can't shake the connotation that reading romance means not dealing with real life. (My hackles similarly rise whenever someone brings up the "real people instead of actors" thing -- umm, unless we're talking animal actors, aren't people the only kind there can be? Or are they fake? Yes, I'm babbling. It was a long night.)

For me, it's anything but. In romances, we deal with the whole schmiel. Birth, death, love, hate, politics, religion, faith,doubt, war, time, space, friendship, betrayal, family,etc. It's all in there. Romance is the stuff of real life. Don't most of us know what the emotion of love is? Romantic or otherwise, we know it, we crave it, we give it, we live it every day. How is exploring that getting away from what's real? I dunno. Maybe I'm too nitpicky. Maybe I need jelly beans.

More tomorrow, as I am off to soak and read some Pamela Clare.

What won't we do for love, pt 2:


This entry may be more random than I had hoped. For one thing, I know I have something brewing because I spent most of the morning working on my caption book. A little known outside of my own household, this is a brown-paper blank book I've started decorating with pictures left over from olllld Star Trek calendars of various vintages, and captions I've written for them. Which have absolutely nothing to do with Trek or SF in general, and can be either amusing or twisted depending on how your mind works.

The pages today got more sophisticated, and I surprised myself that a few consecutive pages actually have a rudimentary story arc. So yes, something is definitely brewing in my story center. Which means I will probably go on a writing tear sometime in the next few days and make up for the pokey days. Which is a good thing. Because aside from the collaged pages, writing was pokey today. I added to my page count, yes, but it was pokey, and pokey makes Anna grumpy.

But back on topic. I'm a sucker for rough stuff in my historical romances. If I hear a book has anything at all to do with Newgate Prison, it's in my cart right away. Indentured servitude? Yep. Survivors of domestic violence, you bet. Horrible first spouses for hero or heroine? Yes, please. Wars, famines, diseases, come on in and let's have us a talk.

For me, part of the romance journey is about healing. My h/hs are strong enough to take whatever I throw their way. They have to be; it's part of the job. As I was saying in IM with Elise (she of ETC by ECT) earlier today, the hero and heroine will make it to their HEA. Everyone else, I make no promises. There's going to be some rough stuff going on. That's part of the story. There's going to be healing, because that's part of the story, too.

When a recent Marsha Canham book surprised me with something permanently owie that happened to a previous h/h (don't want to spoil anyone) my first thought wasn't "oh no, how could they do that to X" but "well, yeah, of course. Occupational hazard. Wouldn't have picked it, but X can handle it." And X did. I want my h/hs to be like that. I want them to be real people with real lives.

Bleh. Must post in the morning next time, as my brain just looked at the clock and promptly shut down.

What won't we do for love? (Pt1)

First off, I have no idea how my sidebars got that far down on the page; will fix when I have more time, and noodle with the colors as well.

Now on to the main attraction. What are your personal no-nos in a romance novel? Particularly a historical? Historical saga? I had a talk with my friend Vicki today, and the subject of people dying in a novel came up. Some people (the person in the conversation who is not me, for example) maintain that only characters they don't like, ie bad guys, can die, where as others (me) are more of the "whatever would logically happen/is needed for the story." I'll admit I can be a bloody wench when called for. DH is rather amused that most of my stories would be classed as "sweet" going by the current ratings systems, as I don't typically include graphic sexual scenes. (For those keeping track, yes, my h/hs do have sex as suits the relationship/story -- we just let readers use their imaginations.)

I have, however, had shipwrecks, diseases, childbirth, wars, accidents, etc. Dalby from My Outcast Heart sticks his hand in a fire. On purpose. I have one novel-legnth fanfic that has been informally dubbed "the head wound story" because, umm, ::looks around:: things go boom, people go owie, there's a suicide by exposure, and a miscarriage (not the same person.) Sympathetic characters will die if that's what would happen, and if it suits the story. I can't not do that. It's not in me. While I won't kill of a hero or heroine in their own book, and I'm not one to kill off Heroine One so Hero One can have Heroine Two later on, if it's a family saga, later on, well, yeah. How many three hundred year olds (outside of paranormal/time travel) do we see running about?

Yes, this is romance I write. The story of how one man and one woman go from strangers to you-and-no-other. I can't not do that, either. These stories happen to take place in times and locations where life could be perilous, and often is. Does this take the shine off things for some readers? I'm sure it does, and I'm sure those readers might enjoy other sorts of romances. Which is why the genre is as diverse as it is. Which is good.

Reader taste is a funny thing. I remember a conversation with a casual acquaintance who asked what sort of story My Outcast Heart is. Historical romance, I answered. Her first question: is it a series? Not to my knowledge. (at the time; I have ideas for a "world" but I don't know if it's strictly a series) Second question: is it erotic? No. Third question: is it funny? No. (well, maybe to someone, and it's certainly not skukling around catacombs like a cartoon goth teen in hyperbole, but it's not a comedy.) Then silence. Quite possibly the "three strikes, you're out, but oy, you're standing right here and indicating that could be awkward" type. This very nice person may not become one of my readers, and that's fine. I have no trouble telling someone whose reading tastes I know that they wouldn't enjoy one of my stories if I'm pretty sure they wouldn't.

Ah, phooey, brain fritz has just set in, so I will call this entry part one. Talk amongst yourselves, and part two will be here in the morning.

As the late Eugenia Riley said, not every writer will please every reader. That's why there are so many of us.

I've been listening to Johanna Lindsey's The Pursuit on CD today, while working on the wip and an author interview for A Hint of Seduction, and I cannot find the reader's name for the life of me. Library CD, so maybe the version people actually buy will have this information, but it's driving me buggy.

What's lovely is that the reader is either British or good at accents (though I would love to run the Scottish accent by Maili.) Makes me wonder, when American readers read UK-set romances, do you hear the character's voices with their native accents or our own? For me, UK people "sound" like UK people in my head. Granted, usually the standard BBC version, unless I know the regional differences.

Ugh, brain just fizzled. I hate that. I'd meant to post something about reading feuling writing, and how much I enjoy being able to "visit" historical worlds, but at the moment, my grey matter is consumed with:

Read in tub

Get laundry put away

Eat dinner

Play The Sims2 until husband gets home

Ah, the glamorous writing life.

It won't show up here (I am a luddite) but I took the "What Kind of Novel Should I Write" quiz at Quizilla, and got the Romance result.

No big surprise there, eh? Though Nora Roberts, not so much. I'd rather be a hodgepodge of early Bertrice Small (read her The Kadin when I was eleven and became hooked for life on historical romance) Francine Rivers (vividly remember standing outside an Ames (department store) to phone the local UBS to see if they had a copy of Redeeming Love because I had to have that book or would explode -- they did have it, I did not explode, and I still love that book today.) Valerie Sherwood, Laurie McBain, Shirlee Busbee, early Fern Michaels (when Fern was a they, not a she.) Rebecca Brandewyne. Cynthia Wright. Cordia Byers.

If all these names are listed on my personal "wall" of inspiration, they're right there beside Angela Elwell Hunt (another vivid memory, of having discovered her with the medieval Afton of Margate Castle -- which does contain a wall-banging, deal-breaking, don't-you-EVER-come-near-me-again moment, and yet I pushed past, kept reading, and fell in love but hard. Memory #2, of asking Christian bookstore clerk if there were other Hunt novels, she said no, just that trilogy -- and I went home to check on the net, and found her backlist topped fifty. Ahem, clerk. Ahem.) Liz Curtis Higgs (found her with her funny contemps, which I usually don't read, fell head over heels, can't-break-me-we've-bonded in love with her from the very first page of her Scottish historical trilogy.) Kathleen Morgan. Carol Umberger. Lynn Austin. Penelope J. Stokes. Robin Lee Hatcher. Beverly Lewis.

Of course now my mind is flooded with all those I left out, and I haven't even gotten to what I'd intended to write about in the first place. Plus I'm only chapters away from the end of my first full Jo Beverley novel, My Lady Notorious. Is it possible to sneak a book at work if you work for yourself?

Man oh man do I love CORW meetings. Yesterday's speaker was JoAnn Ferguson, aka J.A. Ferguson, aka Jocelyn Kelley, who was fabulous as always. Six pages of notes on character, and delicious lunch, even if we did have to talk louder than usual for everyone to hear each other. I had a great time, want to do it again, and am pooped.

Confession time -- I dread Sundays. Don't get me wrong. I love going to church, seeing my church family, worshipping, hearing a great message, praying with and for people I love. It's the whole deal of getting up, going out, the abrupt shift from church to dashing off to get lunch for relativse, trek out to their town, not knowing if it will be a good day or a bad day, since nobody wants to "worry" me with details. Umm, wouldn't knowing what's going on mean I don't have to speculate, thus eliminating worry? ::sigh::

If this is a weekend, especially the sabbath, doesn't that mean it should be at a place somewhat slower than the Indy 500? I'm grumbly today because I lost *another* earring back, it's the day before laundry day, and I really really need a nap. Would I rather be writing? Yes. I had a good week going, and I hate to be interrupted when I'm in a groove.

But that's life. Conflict makes story, right? Because an entry about me lounging in the comfy chair and reading RT would be boring.

I'm sitting here, waiting for the circulation to come back into my foot, one of the joys for sitting the wrong way too long. The printer has for some reason decided that it needed to spit out four pages when I wanted it to print one (no wasted ink; the others were blank, but wanted to come along for the ride.) This means I get to put the green scrap paper in the printer. It's kind of a hunter's stew of back sides of papers I don't need for first drafts and such.

RWA chapter meeting tomorrow, and I'm looking forward to that. It's always a boost to the system to be around my colleagues and friends, enjoy the conversation and learn something new from our guest speakers.

Writingwise, it's been a planning day, setting up my notebook for The Wild Rover. Since I'm on the downhill side of Orphans in the Storm, I need my game plan in place for the new book. I like this getting-to-know them stage, adding flesh to the character bios I've sketched out for them, filling in the holes. Makes it a wee bit (and I do mean a wee bit) easier to look at my here-to-the-end outline of the current wip. ::sniffle:: I'm a sobby baby when I have to acknowledge I'm headed for the finish line.

Then again, it does mean I'm that much closer to starting another one, so it does balance out.

Have finally solved the purse book problem. Had started one book, thinking it was book one in a series, found out it was book four ::ahem:: and though I have two and three, do not have one. Bleh. Put book four back on shelf, stomp around in a circle muttering about why can't they put numbers on them, would that be too hard? Finally noticed Jo Beverley's My Lady Notorious, which I'd been meaning to read for ages, and now I'm tearing through it. Do I have Malloren fever? Could well be. Immersing myself in the Georgian world can only be a good thing.

A lapful of kitty and a screenful of art

Earlier this afternoon, I was as above. Coming off a very good writing morning, given self a wee break before jumping back in, and what comes up in my email in box? Right there in the return address column, I spot Tim-the-artist's addy. Scan to topic -- he used the word "file." Could this mean?

Open email -- pictures loading -- yes! The very first sketches to see if my babbling can turn into his images. I remember petting Olivia kitty and holding my breath just a tad, thinking "I'm finally going to meet him."

Huh? Him who? Dalby? I know Dalby. I wrote Dalby. I spent a hundred thousand words and a year plus of my life with Dalby. Still, this was different. The picture loaded, and I scrolled down to eye level. Would that be my book's hero looking back at me? Would we know each other? Yes, and yes.

Next step is to put the pictures on my office wall and then see what I notice when I'm not-looking-at-them looking at them (if that makes sense.) Yet another reason to look forward to morning. I'm a little bouncy in my seat at the moment, but I think today, I'm allowed.

As I'm writing this, I'm checking something in the manuscript for My Outcast Heart, so I can tell Tim-the-artist. Also listening to Billy Joel sing "Goodnight Saigon" from the Millenium Concert album, and have been surfing the net and my bookcases for a good picture of a 1710s era buckskin coat. All of which has melded in my mind that "Goodnight Saigon" is the start of one heckuva battle scene if I can transport it a few centuries back in time. Billy's a NY boy; he'd understand, I'm sure. That choral refrain of "...and we will all go down together," repeated, gets me every time. Kleenex, please. Thank you.

I read here that Maggie Osborne is now officially retired. Moment of silence, please. Drat, drat, and double drat. I'm not a western girl for the most part, but the grit and the real emotions of her books made her an autobuy, and I'm going to miss knowing that the fall will bring a new Maggie. Shoot, I'm still in denial over Megan Chance, though I do need to go get her An Inconvenient Wife as soon as humanly possible. Her historical fiction rawks. As in Lost-level rawks. Seriously

Hmm, bunny trail. Must get back on topic. Fans of the American set historical have been saying for a while that they'd love to see more stuff in this vein, and maybe that's part of what's combine with all of the above to put the "hey, I really love writing about colonial NY" bug in my brain. The book I'm currently writing is 17th century England and Netherlands, the next on deck will also be English/European, this time 18th century (around 1740s or so) ::pause for air drum solo during "We Didn't Start the Fire" -- be glad I have no webcam:: Then I do have two more colonials outlined, and notes on another. Doing both English and colonial books feels right somehow.

My characters do also seem to have an inherent tendency to hop on a ship and search for adventure, and I'm looking forward to that, too. But I'm still going to miss Maggie Osborne.