Cannonball

         Well, it’s February, closing in on Valentine’s Day, and that means romance novel bashing is going to happen more often than usual. Good enough reason to cannonball back into the blogging waters, because my waters are boiling. Tee hee, look at all that ladyporn, giving women unrealistic expectations of real life, those books are all the same, blah blah blah, haw haw, shake head at the stupid love-deprived women who read and write them, so silly, so sad, so…stop. Okay? Stop.

          It’s not cute, it’s not funny, and it doesn’t make the detractors look smarter. I listened to a radio segment on this topic today, same old same old, and, when combined with recent blog posts by writer friend E. Catherine Tobler, it produced this.
There’s been buzz lately in some science fiction and fantasy circles, over the treatment and depiction of women, which I think is an interesting point. Since I write and read romance, which is largely (but not entirely) written and read by women, our numbers skew in the other direction, regarding gender, but there is a common ground here. I’m talking women. We have the right to write and read whatever we please, and it doesn’t matter what anybody else thinks. Still, some people don’t seem to get that, and that puzzles me. It puzzles me a lot.

         Every genre has conventions. Every one. So why is it worthy of derision when the whole point of the story is a woman getting what she wants out of life? Romance is the genre where the woman always wins. She selects a life partner who is faithful to and proud of her, who supports her, respects her and if he’s not actually helping her to achieve her goals, he’s shaking pompoms from the bleachers and cheering her on. He’s her equal partner, be he duke, cowboy, CEO, small town farmer, RN, or what-have-you.

        I’ve heard the “oh, romances are all the same” argument since I was sneaking books from my mother’s nightstand. It wasn’t true then, and it isn’t true now. So, historicals are the same as contemporaries, as fantasy or futuristic, or romantic suspense, erotic as inspirational, as YA, as traditional Regencies, as westerns, as category, as single title, as serials and anthologies and multiple author continuities? New subgenres are emerging constantly, veteran ones declared dead but then coming back in a slightly different form, to go do their magnificent thing all over again in a brand new way. I love the vibrant feel of this genre, my genre, and no, I don’t think the books are all the same. Read a few and that becomes plain.

        Neither are the people attached to these stories all the same. Mostly women? Yes, and there is nothing at all wrong with that. Some are stay at home parents or caregivers. Some are military personnel, pilots, scientists, clergy of various faiths, teachers, executives, lawyers, retail workers, businesspeople, artists, librarians, academics, holders of GEDs and PhDs. Married, happily or otherwise, single, happily or otherwise, and every point on the spectrum in between. What we do have in common is the love of a good story, that of two people who overcome obstacles and choose to stick together for life. Don’t see what’s stupid or cringeworthy there.

       The books are all porn? No. Porn is porn. Romance novels are about the emotional journey of two characters. This may include opening the bedroom door, to small or great degree, or it may include closing it entirely. I’ve read very effective romances all along the spectrum from inspirational to erotic romances. Sex is a part of most romantic relationships, and that doesn’t only mean explicit depictions of the actual act. It’s the unique appeal of one person to the other, the “can’t take my eyes off him/her” that makes this person somehow different from all other potential mates. It’s different for every couple, because we’re talking individuals here, and how they go from two “me’s” to one “we.”

         I don’t understand this bashing. I probably won’t, and most likely, most of the bashers don’t care what I think. They’ve chortled, slapped each other on the back and moved on to something more worthy, whatever that might be. They’ll be back at some future opportunity, and when they are, they’ll probably miss, once again, the real point of such articles. They provide opportunity for romance readers and writers to have a good laugh, blow off some steam and then go back to reading and writing some awesome books.

I’ll close with this: when I run into a romance basher in person, I ask them which books they read that gave them that impression. Not heard about, not saw the covers of, not read a snippet of the screen of a stranger’s Kindle on public transportation. Read. If the answer is none, they don’t know what they’re talking about, do they? If the answer is “none, could you recommend some?” then a new adventure is about to begin.

Not a Cance in Ell

Two days ago, in the middle of a chat with a friend, the H key came off my laptop. One stroke it was there, the next, it was wobbly, and after that, it absconded. I put it back on, tried a stroke, and we're back to the wobble. Clearly, this is not going to work. I had to start thinking of options. H is kind of essential to what I do - how am I going to manage without it? What if my next hero and heroine are Henry and Helena?

The first thing that crossed my mind was to inform my husband (another H right there) that I would need a new computer sooner rather than later. Can't argue with that. I'm operating without 1/26th of my most essential tools. Combine this with the current laptop's advanced age, cracked casing and the fact that it's on its second battery and umpteenth power cord, and I should have an ironclad case. Timing, however, might be off. New computer, get in line.

Next option - write without the letter H. Once upon a time, I wrote a character who affected a Cockney accent, dropping his H's. Is he trying to send me a message? If so, couldn't he have done it without crippling my keyboard? (Though when he first barged into my head, he ruined a pair of leggings, so I wouldn't put it past him.)

Which brought me to the next option - consider this a sign that the whole writing thing may be a wrong turn. That lasted all of about half a second. Not a cance in ell was I turning back now. Only one thing left to do. Type on the nub. Which, as it turned out, wasn't that much of a hardship. Combine with intermittent attempts to press the key back onto the nub, some of which work, and some of which don't, and we're back in business.

Same computer, still working on same current projects, and while it's nice to have the actual key, I have found that typing on the nub can be done, without injury or discomfort. Losing an H is not an insurmountable obstacle, and for touch typers, makes a surefire "you are here" sign. Currently, the key is staying put, and I'm glad of that. Still, it's an experience, a funny story, and I know that if I have to function without an H key, I can.

Ten Romance Novels That Have Stuck With Me, Part the First

Have you seen the "Ten Books That Have Stuck With Me" meme? I knew as soon as I saw that one that I'd have to do it, and filling in the slots was pretty easy, especially when the instructions were to not put too much thought into the process. This was what I came up with, in short order:

Skye O'Malley by Bertrice Small

Flowers in the Attic by V.C. Andrews

Black Beauty by Anna Sewell

Wideacre by Philippa Gregory

Sword Dancer by Jennifer Roberson

Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh

Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro

Long Way Down by Nick Hornby

Lovesong by Valerie Sherwood

Broken Wing by Judith James

Giving this a quick once-over, I see three genre romances (Skye O'Malley, Lovesong, Broken Wing,) three historical novels (Wideacre, Brideshead Revisited, Remains of the Day,) one horror (Flowers in the Attic,) one fantasy (Sword Dancer,) one children's book, (Black Beauty) and one piece of contemporary fiction (Long Way Down.) Since Black Beauty has a historical setting, we can give that credit for the historical category as well. Interesting spread there, everything with a deep emotional core - I know each book has made me cry at least once, and never fear, I like crying over an emotional scene- but I immediately started thinking of a list comprised only of my genre of choice, historical romance?



Though I did repeat authors on this second list, I purposely chose not to repeat books. Picking only ten was more difficult with the narrower focus, and made me think of narrowing the focus even farther, which I will likely do at a later date. For now, let's take in the list itself:

Ten Historical Romance Novels That Have Stuck With Me:

1. The Kadin by Bertrice Small

2. The Velvet Promise by Jude Deveraux

3. Bold Breathless Love by Valerie Sherwood

4. Libertine’s Kiss by Judith James

5. Daughters of the South Wind by Aola Vandergriff

6. Tapestry by Karen Ranney

7. A Love So Bold by Annelise Kamada

8. A Rose in Winter by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

9. Wild Bells to the Wild Sky by Laurie McBain

10. Call Back the Dream by Barbara Hazard



What are your top ten most enduring historical romances?

NaNo Lessons and Lynn Viehl Giveaway Winner

I wasn't going to do NaNo this year. I'd done it before, won before and not won before, and last year, though I did okay on the word count, also wound up in a mental muscle cramp a good deal of the time and ended up putting a book of my heart on the back burner for all the debris to settle before it's time to revisit that story. Not the ideal outcome, but sometimes, we have to go through such places in our writing lives.

It wasn't until days before the start that I signed up this year, and decided that I had nothing to lose by doing something radically different. For me, this NaNo, this was...not count words. Fired up Zen Writer with a pretty background, did a lot of longhand writing, and decided to do what came naturally. Which turned out to be a) writing longhand first, and b) working scene to scene.

Also helpful was becoming involved in the social aspect of NaNo, something made easier by the fact that the kickoff party was held at my favorite coffee house, literally a two minute walk from my home. I didn't make it to most of the events, but the Facebook group for local NaNo people is still going strong. I met two new friends through the group. While I didn't make fifty thousand words, my goal wasn't a number, but a story, and that's what I got. I got to the end of my draft. I had fun.

The draft I have isn't perfect, and it's going to need some work, but the story is told, and that's a success. Not a NaNo win, but a success. I'll take it, and move on to the next project, with a new set of skills and a better knowledge of what works for me.

Speaking of moving on, let's move on to the big reveal...

Our lucky winner for the Lynn Viehl giveaway is....

:drumroll:

BUNNY Bunny, please contact me at: AnnaCBowling@gmail.com with your mailing address, and Lynn will get that big bundle o' treasures headed in your direction.

Happy Dance Friday #123 - SYTYCD Season 10 Finale

Have to say, this wasn't a big surprise to me; Fik-Shun and Amy (who reminds me much of Sabra from season three; that's for a later post) stood out to me from the very beginning. Aaron and Jasmine are worthy competitors, so this year wasn't as much "who's going to win" as "let's savor the overabundance of awesome dancing." Which is, I think, what we got.

Mary and Nigel served heaping portions of entertainment and fun, and when I thought it couldn't get any better...dance bomb by Adam Shankman. Loved this. More, please.

One of my favorite parts of SYTYCD finales is the command performances, where guests (and dancers) get to pick their favorite routine to see again. I loved that we got to see two Travis Wall routines, which were both amazing, but if I'd been able to pick one encore performance, it would have been Jasmine Mason and Alan's blindfolded contemporary. Travis Wall tapped into something deeply emotional here, taking the visual away from the dancers, and giving it all to the audience. I can't say that I've ever seen anything like that before, and when I see choreography, when I see dancing that makes me want to be a better writer, that has to get the nod. So, my pick:



How did you like the finale, dance fans?

Happy Dance Friday #122 - Get Lucky Supercut Driveby post

Entering the writing cave for a big chunk of the day, so will wax eloquent on SYTYCD semifinals later. With so much talent, this is going to be one phenomenal finale, and while I'm going to miss Paul (I always have a thing for the ballroom boys) mightily, this is going to be a battle of champions, guys and girls both. I do want to talk about the gals as well, but I can see my story people tapping their feet and staring at me, so that's later.

I found this extremely creative supercut of movie dances set to Daft Punk's "Get Lucky" while searching the interwebs. Wow, did somebody ever put a ton of work into getting this all together:



Did you catch all the movies represented here? What's your favorite movie dance scene?

In Love With The Lotus Palace and the Wide World of Romance

The Lotus Palace by Jeannie Lin
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Jeannie Lin creates an intriguing, immersive world of the Pikang li, where the most unlikely of bedfellows (literally and figuratively) can lead to the love of a lifetime.

Failed scholar Bai Huang and maidservant Yue-ying, a former prostitute known as "half-moon" for the wine colored birthmark that tints part of her jaw, join forces to find the truth behind the murder of a famed courtesan. The greater mystery, however, is the undeniable bond that forms between the two outcasts, finding in each other the place where they truly belong.

The course of true love, however, never does run smooth, and Ms. Lin makes effective and poignant use of the stringent rules that shape both respectable society and the separate world of the Pikang li. Bai Huang's life is set out before him, and there is no room for one such as Yue-ying, who hopes only to remain as a maidservant. Even the status of concubine is out of her reach, and yet....

The passion in this book builds at a deliciousky decorous pace, not will they/won't they, but should they/shouldn't they until one soul shaking rain-soaked kiss proves the rule of love is the one that must be obeyed above all.

Whether a reader is new to the intricate, intoxicating world of Tang Dynasty China, or already acquainted with Ms. Lin's stories, The Lotus Palace is not to be missed.

View all my reviews

After reading a few Jeannie Lin books, a reader starts to wonder why there aren't more historical romance novels set in Tang Dynasty China. Seriously. With The Lotus Palace, the ever-amazing Ms. Lin entices readers into the lushly imagined world of the pleasure quarter, where courtesans, servants, scholars, villains and heroes intermingle and secrets abound.

Can I resist that kind of lure? Heck, no. I cut my reading teeth on Bertrice Small's The Kadin, and other novels where the settings were varied and scattered all over the globe, and I loved it. Over time, things changed, and the vast majority of my favorite genre settled somewhat comfortably into nineteenth century England, give or take a few decades.

Fair enough. There are some great authors who write wonderful stories in those settings. Still, my ears prick when I hear of something that blends the best of old school and current romances. Which is why I remembered meeting a friend of a friend at NECRWA a few years back, a quick "hi, person, this is other person" thing which gave way to the standard writer's conference icebreaker, a game we call "what do you write?" This person responded "historicals," which elicited a nod of recognition, because hey, I write historicals, and that advances to round two, "what era?" This is where things get fun.

The answer, in this case, was "Tang Dynasty China." I have to say I think my ears actually perked, but my hair probably covered it. Other person in this case was, of course, Jeannie Lin, and I knew then and there that I was going to have to read that book. Did I already know very much about Tang Dynasty China? Nope, not at that time, but that's one of the great things about historical romance. There's a whole wide world of it, and I say if an author has a chance to fling back the doors of history and splash out a gorgeous love story in a period that is close to her (or his; I've met some very talented gents at these conferences as well) heart, then I say not only "do," but "please do." Please oh so very much do.

Because here's the thing; the story of two people finding their ideal other half isn't restricted to one time or place. I want to be taken into another world, introduced around, well fed, learn the customs and the history and see how "ohhhh, this is going to get complicated for Our Lovers because X is going to happen, and X cannot happen between them because of reason Y, but I love them and they have to be together and I am going to stay up all night and read this entire book to make sure that they do."

Happy Dance Friday #121: Tuckered out and the Brothers Tidwall

Yep, this is my reaction to most eliminations at this stage of the game, because let's face it, when we get down to the top eight out of how many thousands of dancers who auditioned, everybody's good, and saying goodbye to anybody hurts. Given my druthers, I'd keep everybody and form a dance company, but A) I am not yet a billionaire and B) SYTYCD is a contest. Even so, this one, well, this one hurt.

I knew it was going to be hard when my brain "got" it that Fik-Shun and Tucker were in the bottom two for the men. First, there was the surge of "Do not make me choose, people" and then the solos. I loved them both. I want them both. As I've said to DH, if I had a production company and asked a talent agency to send me a male dancer, I'd be thrilled if either of those gentlemen walked through the door. So, either way, it was going to hurt.

Tucker Knox, whose name I would totally steal if I were writing contemporary romance, who waxed eloquent about knowing how fortunate he was to have a father who supported his dance career when many other male dancers do not have that help, who won my creative affection forever in this cha cha:



...I am going to miss your weekly presence.

Even so, it's not goodbye-goodbye, thanks to the magic of YouTube, which is a good thing. There are those moments that I dearly wish every creative person could have, where art and life transcend the boundaries and make something that is beautiful and true and has a life of its own. Which is where we get to the Brothers Tidwall.



Normally, portmanteau names make me itchy, but I'm going with this one, because the sheer poignant beauty of the routine Travis Wall choreographed for Tucker and all star Robert, of one brother helping another up from rock bottom, pierced right to the heart. Though Travis has other brothers, the fact that this story was told in dance told me immediately it was probably Danny Tidwell who inspired the brother's character.



Mr. Tidwell, (as apparently, I am addressing dancers directly today) I don't know what challenges you've faced, but know that watching you dance live on the SYTYCD tour was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen in my life, and was a special treat during a very dark and trying period of mine. Such is the power of story and dance.

Never Too Late In More Ways Than One.

Never Too Late was concieved during a writing group I attended some years back, along with Melva Michaelian and M.P. Barker. We'd been given a suggestion and were to write whatever came to mind, keeping pen in motion, until the moderator called time. I don't think I had any idea what I was going to write, and then, there it was, and I was in turn of the century England (and later, Italy) in the mind of a heroine ready to chuck it all and go after what she's always wanted.

It wasn't until the story was complete and had spent some time marinating that I noticed I'd never given my heroine a first name, and calling her "Mrs. Sinclair" in query letters and promotional materials was going to get clunky. She ended up being Amelia, and I managed to slip that information in there in a not too clunky manner. Being that this was a novella, and e-publishing then was different from e-publishing now, I wasn't sure where a shorter work should go, but lo and behold, one of Awe-Struck E-books' then-co-owners was starting a new venture, and looking for such stories. Perfect fit, but then life happened, and "Never Too Late" ultimately went to Uncial Press, along with "Queen of the Ocean."

Today, while walking in the park, thinking about writing and future projects, I spotted a man with a long silver ponytail walking the path in front of me. He wore khaki shorts and had text tattoos on the back of both calves. Though I can't have tatoos myself for medical reasons, I'm intrigued by the art form, and of course wanted to see what his said. I stepped up my pace and then stopped in my tracks.

On the backs of both legs, in all capital letters, were the words, "Never Too Late." Important words, those, important enough for a man of some experience to have them inked onto his body more than once, big and bold. Nothing to do with my story, I am beyond sure, though I did make a sound not unlike a squeal at seeing those words. Only a small one, mind, and I did remember that it's not socially acceptable to chase down strangers and quiz them about their body art. Still, it does make me wonder. What, exactly, was the story behind this gent's tattoos? What was it never too late for, for him? Why on the calves, and why, for that matter, both calves instead of only one? Was the phrase a reminder? A warning? A mantra? A prayer? A motto? And why, for that matter, did this total stranger with this phrase, repeated, cross my path on that particular walk while I was thinking those particular thoughts? Coincidence, maybe. Grand design, maybe. Either way, pretty cool, and I headed for home, my writerbrain fortified. On with the next book. BTW, if you're curious about "Never Too Late" itself, you can read the first chapter and/or grab it here: https://www.uncialpress.com/never-too-late.html

Happy Dance Friday #120 - Precious Jade and Paso Fik-Shun

I knew something was up when the opening number was a man down on this week's SYTYCD, and when Cat Deely announced it was Jade who was injured, please refer to gif above. Before last year brought the guys from Dragon House to my attention, I didn't know animation was a dance style, but the precision, the technicality, the unusualness of it all drew me in. When Vegas week came down to a battle between Jade and fellow animator Blu-Print, I watched with the attention of an avid sports fan (and this coming from a woman whose first trip to a major leage baseball game was spent regretting the book she'd left in the car) because I didn't want to see either of them out of the competition. I cheered when Stacey Tookey (who is amazing) decided that the show needed both dancers, because I did and do agree, and losing one to injury, well, it stinks.



Jade, we're going to miss you. Stay strong, get better, dance another day.

SYTYCD knows how to soothe disappointed fans, though, especially since I'd been wanting to see Fik-Shun draw ballroom. Not only did he draw ballroom, but Paso Doble, my favorite Latin dance. The dance of the bullfight, known in some ballroom circles as the man's dance; dark, dramatic, life or death, carried out with a sense of showmanship. In short, this dance always makes me happy, and to see it carried out that well by a favorite contestant, that's a happy dance for sure.



On the off chance that I do have some mystical tie to the selection process (hey, I do write fiction, so allow me the possibility)I would love to see this gent matched with some Travis Wall choreography. Just saying. Putting it out there. What about you, dance fans?

Happy Dance Friday #118, Everything's Better With Monkees

Meant to post this bright and early, but then I opened a Word file, and well, :shifty eyes: I found I'd spent most of the day in England after an outbreak of the Black Death. Writing life will do that to a person. I regret nothing.

Only when I opened this file did I remember I hadn't blogged about the SYTYCD auditions or the first week of competition, (or blogged at all for roughly a month, eep,) so stay tuned. This looks like a really interesting year, but for now, this Monkees classic fits:

Happy Dance Friday #115 - Rita Hayworth, the Bee Gees and a snow day in March

Last night, I stayed up far too late, talking books with a reader friend :waves hi to Carolina: and woke to a gorgeous sight. More than the single inch of snow we'd been forecast, everything was blanketed under a stunning blanket of white, bare tree branches blanketed, and even more drifting down. It's still coming. DH ambled out of the kitchen, asking if anybody wanted French toast and bacon. As it turns out, it was cinnamon French toast, which makes it even better. That made it official. Snow day.

Our household contains only adults, and DH still had to go in, but it still counts. Still counts as well even though I'm heading down to the coffee house for a writing session, because that's what I want to do. So what's the difference? By my standards, a lifting of the normal restritions or regulations. The chance to breathe and step back from the every day and ask what would be the best thing for this moment. What would give pleasure? What would get us ready for the return to normal life, stronger, more rested and refreshed?

For me, the answer was immediate. I stayed in my pajamaas slightly longer than usual, because eating surprise cinnamon French toast should not be done while wearing regular clothes. My brain meandered back to the conversation of the night before, of the many things I love about historical romance; the mental journey to another time and place, the chance to climb in the skins of hero and heroine and live not only through the time but through the love story. Which is a good place for a writer of historical romance to be.

Which is also a good place for a happy dance. Bee Gees make me happy and heroines who make history make me happy, so finding the two mushed together is even more fitting for the specialness of a snow day.



What makes a snow day or other found day extra special for you?

Happy Dance Friday #113: Right Said Fred and some rambling on writing...

We have entered that part of the year known as "butt cold." The kind of weather that is the real reason sweatshirts have hoods and is perfect for staying inside with a good sized supply of reading material...and/or computer games, hence the snowy Sims picture.

I'd first intended to post a traditional (if there is such a thing) Happy Dance Friday post, then decided I'd ramble instead, but the rambling reminded me of a bit of happy-dance-inspiring music, which ties in nicely with said rambling, so you get both. These guys have the right perspective on the creative life in today's tune:



2012 was not my best creative year, and far from the most stress-free. For 2013, I'd like to flip that coin over and have the opposite. Which takes some work, some faith, some trial, some error, and the resiliency of a SuperBall (I once dropped one out of a third story dormitory window to see if it would bounce back up all the way. It did. Many thanks to my friend, Diana R, who waited on the ground to make sure she caught any stray balls before they could meet car windows. Yes, she did, and no, they didn't.)but eventually, one gets there.

Like today. I'm reading straight through the ms formerly titled "Draperwood" which is now "Ravenwood," which makes more sense as a place name, and making revisions. You know it's a good day when you're driving your characters through a plague-decimated England and chair dancing as you do because it's fun to do so. I bought a book of stamps, earmarked for good old fashioned snail mail letters, because one dear friend gave me a fountain pen for Christmas and the lure of sitting at my antique secretary desk and writing letters the old-fashioned way is too much for a writer of historical romance to resist. Besides, who doesn't want something in one's mailbox that is not a bill or junk mail? The letter writer in me announced that she is done being quiet, and I have learned it's useless to oppose her. Hence the stamps.

Yesterday, Housemate Linda and I made purchases at two local small bookstores. Between those, the two libraries within walking distance, and my electronic reading devices, the TBR pile is shaping up quite nicely. Tomorrow's plans involve much reading, the baking of cookies, and messing about with some arty things because A) I have stamps and that means mail art, and B) the art supply store had free samples and the girls in my basement (borrowing term from Barbara Samuels, from her book, The Care and Feeding of the Girls in the Basement - highly recommended reading for writers, IMO)want to play with paint. I think I'm going to let them.

What weekend plans make you want to happy dance?

Happy Dance Friday #112 - Sovereign Light Cafe

I'm going back to a time when we owned this town
Down Powdermill lane in the battlegrounds
We were friends and lovers and clueless clowns

- Sovereign Light Cafe, Keane

Do not ask me how many times I've seen this video, because I can't count that high. The name of the song drew me in at first - could this be about a place that's a character in itself? (It is, and it's a real place, though the website is still under construction, it would seem.) One of my favorite tropes right there, and with such an evocative name, I couldn't resist.

Every time I watch this, I find new things - the Union Jack flag on the parked bicycle at 1:57 and hey, where did the guy in the beanie at 2:39 come from? I'd kept all my attention on the couple with the ice cream in that shot the last dozen times. There are two gentlemen practicing martial arts, but one wears a black belt (high level of achievement) and the other a white belt (beginner) - are they teacher and student?

The melody is lovely, gently upbeat and hopeful, the lyrics implying both a troubled past and a homecoming with good intent, but it's the varied characters that catch my attention the most. The stern, intense concentration of a young male gymnast. A ballerina poised against the grey of sea and sky. Trick bicycle riders and acrobats doing somersaults through the air. A line of costumed belly dancers in front of changing cabanas wave their brilliantly covered scarves. The dancer who gets the closeup? A woman of experience, shall we say? I think she's gorgeous. Rock on, madam.

That's what makes this song worthy of the happy dance title. A wide variety of people, each doing their own thing. Antique cars drive along the same beach where a white horse gallops. Antique big wheeled bicycles traverse the sidewalk. Old friends need to say nothing, only be there for each other. Members of the band pose on benches or against walls, solo, while the singer, our narrator, strolls the seaside, eventually leading a scarlet-coated marching band to the cafe. There, everybody can gather at the end of the day; teens and pensioners, singers and athletes coming together to watch the night settle. Add to that our narrator coming home to those who know him -possibly to reunite with a long lost love?- and will presumably take him as he is? Bliss, and definitely something for the idea file.

Here comes that feeling again...

Last night, I stayed up far past my bedtime, reading Lady of the Glen by Jennifer Roberson. This is my first historical my Ms. Roberson, though her romantic fantasy Sword Dancer series has long been a favorite of mine. I blogged about it for Heroes and Heartbreakers here.

Lady of the Glen isn't an easy book, and that's exactly what kept me reading.

Most of my favorite books aren't easy stories, and the same thing applies in writing. Story in, story out. Even if it's late. Especially when it's late. Those times when getting to the end of the story is more important than sleep, that's what I want, both as a reader and a writer.

For me, it's not enough to say "it was night." I want to feel the cool wind on my cheek, breathe the stillness of the night air, inch my way along in the inky blackness using only memory and the shapes that I can pick out in the shadows. Since my genre of choice is romance, it's a given that the two lovers are going to have their happily ever after at the end of the story, but if that HEA comes at great cost, even better.

Setting that book down at last, after closing the cover and my tired eyes, I was satisfied with Cat and Dair's happily ever after, sad at how much it cost them, and angry that my time with them was over. No, I don't want a sequel, spinoff or continuation. The story was complete in itself, and I wouldn't ask it to be anything else. I was satisfied knowing that, although I have to give the library back its copy, mine is still safely snuggled in its cardboard box in the storage unit, along with other books. In time, it will find its way onto my shelves in our new home. Said shelves are still in flux as we continue to settle in, but being able to touch a book that I missed. I'd packed my copy before reading it, and had a strong yearning for it when I saw the library's copy on their shelves.

I have other library books in my TBR stack, and purchased books and ebooks in two different formats, so it's not that I don't have anything to read. It's that I lived in that world for the time it took me to read Cat and Dair's story, and I'm going to need to acclimate some. Then I'll be ready to read something else. By tonight, I'll be engrossed in something from the TBR stack, and I'll let that story flow into me and feed my own story hamster.

I can feel that fire I've missed, the one that got dampened. Reading. Writing. The one feeds the other. Talking, too, about both, because that's how I roll. Feel free to chime in at any time.

Have you ever missed a book when you finished reading it?

emptyfull

Talk about writing exactly as much as you, personally, need to talk about writing.
--Seanan McGuire

When I walked away from the table, there were bruises on the unheard lyrics of my yet-to-be-born songs.
-K'naan

Creative work comes from internal fires.

--Mary Jo Putney

Today's quotes come from a file I started keeping a few months back. The title inserted itself in my head after I got to the laundromat, in a morning that looked pretty much like the picture above, and realized that I had not brought along a notebook. I had pens, but no notebook and nothing that could be pressed into service. How did I feel at the moment? Emptyfull. Technically not a word, but it fit at the moment, and it encapsulated a lot of what I've felt about writing over the past year.

Full of stories to be told. Empty of the right way to tell them. The voices of my untold stories doing their best to make themselves heard over the noise of the hypercritical gremlins who'd got into my head somewhere along the way. Since I had my e-reader with me, I delved into Marsha Canham's The Iron Rose, finished that and got a fair way into The Following Sea before it was time to fold laundry and haul it home. I've long admired Ms. Canham not only for her writing, but for her committment to telling her stories, her way. I find that a great inspiration.

A quick check of email and favorite blogs between laundry hauling and lunch alerted me to a timely post at the Word Wenchesm on writerly anxiety. If you're a writer or know one, I highly recommend this post. This. So exactly this. If the voices are going to talk to us anyway, we may as well let them have their say. Anxiety is going to happen, but we can ride it out and come out the other side, stronger. To add another quote to my list, this one from Joanna Bourne, "The only cure for the pain of writing is writing."

So yeah, I'm going to talk about writing as much as I need to. This is my place to do that. Talking is not a subtitute for doing, don't get me wrong, but I find that one revs me up to do the other.

How do you battle anxiety about your creative work and punch those hypercritical gremlins in the throat?

2012/2013 - and so it begins

1/14/2013

Made three attempts to blog today, and deleted them all. I do want to commit to a solid week of blogging to start the year as I mean to go on. Hence this.

Thanks to Barbara Samuels' blog entries on the fear and joy of writing, I'm getting a much better handle on why 2012 was not my best or favorite writing year, but we have a brand new year started, and that's good for a fresh start. Which makes this the right time do commit myself to another whole week of blogging.

There are a few reasons for doing this. One, it gets me on the right path (as in picture above). At the keyboard every day, getting something that's in my head out for public consumption. Two, I'm a talker. Staying quiet isn't natural for me, and the longer I am, the harder it is to climb out of it. Three, enough days of forcing myself to blabber about nothing, I will bore myself and have to talk about something interesting. Stories are interesting.

Our new home is within walking distance of two libraries. Maybe three if we're feeling adventurous. We've found both a small independent bookstore (with a really really really good romance section even though it's only one shelf - kudos to the buyer for excellent choices) and a splendidly sprawling (David-the-barista from our local coffee shop has me doing his vocabulary thing these days. I'm not complaining) Barnes and Noble.

I will admit to going on what housemate Linda and I long ago named "library orgies." No, not that kind. In family parlance, it means to go to more than one library in one day and take out whatever strikes one's fancy. Which means that I have a nice TBR stack next to my bed. At present, I count three library books -no, four, but one is a nonfiction book on art journaling, not a novel- and four newly purchased paperbacks on the "read me next" shelf. My nightstand also holds an ARC of a novel by two favorite authors. My Kindle app on my laptop has been a busy thing lately, as is the ereader that lives in my purse (and dearly needs a charge tonight.) However many books I have, I need more, because of that story hunger. After a dismal 2012, it has me again. Or I have it. It's hard to tell sometimes.

There's one more reason for this week of blogging. Fear. What if I'm not doing it right? What if I don't have what it takes? What if I've been kidding myself all this time and should shut up and go away because nobody really cares anyway? What if....fill in the blank with anything that seems appropriate. Fear, for me, can be crippling, and from my perspective, the only way out is through. So, how best to conquer fear of writing? By writing. No, a blog entry is not a novel, but it's putting the tush in the chair and the fingers on the keyboard and sending something out into the world.

So. This is a week of blogging. Some entries may ramble. Some entries may stink like that hunk of cheese that got trapped between the sofa cushions the same week the not yet paper trained puppy decided that sofa was his. (Not that this ever happened to me, because it hasn't, but DH once stashed a pastrami sandwich in my purse and didn't tell me, which resulted in me taking it to work that night and not finding it until um, eating it was no longer a good idea.) Some may actually make some sense, and some may surprise even me, but they will be written. So far, so good.

Son of Saturday At the Movies: Colin Firth x2; A Single Man and Dorian Gray

All right, so it's been a while since we've had one of these entries, so no number for now. It's been a big few months, some of the big stuff good, some not, but one of the good things is finding the library system in Albany is amazing when it comes to movies, and I am once again gorging myself. This week, it's period dramas, no surprise there. This week, I borrowed two Colin Firth films and one Firth-less classic I've been meaning to see for literally decades, but more on that later.


Set during the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962, A Single Man doesn't dwell much on that world event, keeping the tight focus instead on the title character, George Falconer, a British college professor living and working in the US. George, when we meet him, is in deep grief over the death of his lover, Jim, some months past. Time has moved on, but George has not, the loss of Jim still as sharp and keen as when he first got word of the accident. George gets through his days but everything is empty, and the day that we meet George is in fact the day that he plans to make his last.

George methodically gets his affairs in order, says things he's always meant to say, everything so that he can be done with the never ending grief. The matter of fact tasks George performs are interspersed with vivid memories of life with Jim, which makes George's state all the keener. Life continues to pull at him; an inquisitive student, adult and child neighbors he's kept at arms' length, a chance encounter with a stranger, dinner with a female friend who deals with her own torment by different means. Colin Firth is amazing, and this is one film where every shot counts. The use of color, the incidental music, the blocking, set design, everything has a role in telling us George's story, and when the resolution comes, we can understand how it got there. Definitely have to buy this one for multiple viewings.



You know the story; Dorian doesn't age, but his picture does, and appearance is hugely important in this story, but it's not about looks. Oh sure, we have Ben Barnes and Colin Firth, and a gorgeous set with the right feel of opulent claustrophobia at all the right moments, but as the not-yet-corrupted Dorian says early on in the film, what about a man's soul? Colin Firth's Lord Henry scoffs at the very notion and commits his own soul to hell, later asking Dorian if he'll do the same. Wrong choice, Dorian. Wrong choice, but amazing story, courtesy of Oscar Wilde.

This is another one I have to own, so I can see it by myself and catch the multiple layers. Both lead actors do a marvelous job, and where Dorian throws himself into sybaritic excess, it's Henry who finds growth. Though he takes fatherhood lightly at first, the daughter born soon after Dorian makes his fateful choice, gives Henry the heart he'd always denied. Seasoned readers/viewers know where this is going. Dissolute Dorian, who has already had blood and everything else on his hands, falls for Henry's daughter, Emily. This is not a romance, and Dorian reaps what he sowed, big time. The climax is horrifying, both in what's shown and what's not, and even as we know this is how things have to end, there's still a smidge of sympathy for Dorian, who can't find a way to turn back from what he's become. The final scene with Henry, alone, haunts. I loved the way this movie handled the passage of time; motor cars, telephones, Henry ages, Dorian does not, the hissing breaths from the shaded portrait. There's tragic loves, grief, despair, gorgeous sets and costumes, friendships that go through hell, tasteful and yet visceral historical gore, all combining to leave me one very, very satisified viewer.

Neither of these are for the faint of heart, but for those who want to dive in deep into emotional viscera, two thumbs up. Next up for me: Dr. Zhivago.

40255

I did not win NaNo this year, and I am okay with that. I didn't think I would be. I like to win. If I keep on at the same pace, I will hit 50k on December 7th. Not too bad in that respect, and since I was a rebel this year and worked on a project that was already in progress, I may be there already but I'm not doing that math at this point.

What I did win was A) the new writing schedule fitting itself into place, B) finding out what pace is good for me right now, C) 40,255 more words written than I had on November 1st. Also D) I write big, and trying to ignore that and go for anything else is not going to work.

I learned that the laundromat is an amazingly good place for writing longhand, and that it is possible to get pounced by heartbroken pirates in such a place. He followed me home and I'm keeping him. Since said pirate is fictional, DH is fine with this. I have even volunteered to babysit Housemate's laundry in order to get more writing time.

Bring on December.

Thankful

On Monday, DH wasn't able to go into work due to the strong pain in his left foot. Since that's the foot where his gout flares, we figured that might be it. It wasn't. The usual meds weren't working, so Tuesday was twelve hours in the ER. Mostly waiting, as one might expect. Still not the record holder. (For those counting, that's still thirteen hours with my dad.) At the end, the diagnosis was Achilles Tendonitis, which wasn't treatable in the ER, but we were referred to an orthopedist we needed to see the next day.

Which we did. DH was told to stay off his foot and on some good pain medication. He took the meds but the crutches are still propped in the corner of the bedroom where I put them when we got home. He prefers his shillelegh, which was my grandfather's and then my father's and now his. Tuesday afternoon was DH at home getting some rest and housemate and I driving to unknown territory to get a topical painkiller from a holistic pharmacy. Headed back home, completely exhausted. DH had been up and about while we were gone, which I probably should have seen coming. I know this guy.

While nobody likes Achilles Tendonitis, I'm thankful that's all it was. I'm thankful that DH was able to decide, halfway through the cooking process, that he was going to take over anyway so I could do the last minute tidying and arranging of seating. I'm thankful that DH wasn't in respiratory distress. That his kidneys weren't failing and that we could use the dinosaur spit, as DH termed the topical painkiller, instead of the oral remedy that would have put him at risk for more kidney trouble. I'm thankful that he's able to get around with the shilleleagh and should be cleared to go back to work in a few days. I'm thankful we had the best Thanksgiving ever and, after a wonderful dinner, were able to flop in our comfy chairs and trade battle stories of horrible Thanksgivings past with our guests.

I'm also exhausted. I'm thankful I could be there for DH, but caregiving can rip absolutely every resource out of a person. Glad to do it, glad to rest from it and replenish. We weren't able to do Black Friday this year, and I know for a fact I'm not going to win NaNo this year. Because the Christmas ornaments my family has put up since before I was even born are in the back of the storage unit in another state, we have to get all new for this year, and I really wanted the traditional ones. Won't mind buying new shiny, pretty things, but I miss the cardboard Christmas tree I made in preschool.

DH says he has to admit the dinosaur sit works better than he thought it would, and he's looking forward to getting back to work soon. It's funny looking at getting back to normal when the new normal hasn't been fully formed yet. We still don't know-know anybody in the region, are still finding our way around, but we're home, DH's ER visit was not of the life threatening sort, and I'm thankful for that.


Photo courtesy of Samuraiantiqueworld