Twirl that Moustache!

One of the unexpected perks of writing a 50k word, genre romance is the crafting of the antagonist.

You know, the bad guy. The moustache-twirling, deviously cackling, evil mastermind who is bent on destroying your babied love affair.

Ok, admittedly the antagonist is usually not so blatant or cliché in his/her overall nastiness. Usually, you’re dealing simply with one of the following…

-A coldhearted snake bent on revenge.

-A former lover battling the teensiest bit of an unhealthy obsession.

-A rival with a god complex.

While none of these are particularly enthralling or “new” by any stretch of the imagination, even the most mundane antagonist can prove a boatload of fun for the writer.

A short, genre romance allows the author to go a little off-the-charts with the bad guy. Let’s face it, the audience is there for the love story. Most readers understandably have eyes only for the burgeoning lovers. There’s a reason the bad guy rarely gets more than a sentence in the back cover blurb.

Hence, the writer is given a little leeway with the antagonist simply because the expectations are not there or at least not so well defined.

A little moustache twirling is allowed, if done creatively.

The cackling can indeed by devious if one is careful not to overwhelm the cooing from the lovers.

Even a mastermind can be truly evil-to-the-bone as long as he gets his comeuppance in the end.

So remember to enjoy your antagonist.

Relish in the fact that no matter how dastardly you make the bad guy by definition in this one case he will always, ALWAYS be overcome by the good.

A truly guilty pleasure, indeed.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Perchance to Punish

*the lump of blankets on the couch moves, grumbles incoherently and yawns*

*a rat nest of mussed hair pops out of an afghan fold, your blogger’s eyes eventually follows*

*a scowl is born*

Nightmares are crap.

Unmitigated clusterf**ks of filth.

*your blogger retreats back under the covers*

*muffled, unclear but insistent, the voice continues to grouch…*

I’m thinking the five hour long, marathon bad, bad, BAD dream I had last night is punishment for yesterday’s work…  Well, I suppose “work” is a bit of an overstatement.  I’ll let you judge for yourselves.

I settled down in front of my computer with the intent to put a hurting on Book Three. Knocking down the 500 words I didn’t knock down the day before was at the tip top of my agenda. It was. Really.

*a guilty clearing of your blogger’s throat rumbles from deep beneath the blankets*

*the sheepish confession follows…*

I researched instead.

The research was on Book Three, however, so at least I aimed my folly in the correct direction.

Yep, punishment.

My mind knew I should have been cranking out actual words rather than needlessly investigating atmosphere/history/scenery.

Someday I’ll learn my lesson.

Maybe.

*snickers into the afghan*

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Looking Back? Not Advised

And so there I was, happy as the proverbial clam… a surer sign of impending doom you will never see. *smirks*

I had 500 words to do on Book Three and a long afternoon of pure relaxation and quiet celebration ahead of me (see yesterday’s blog for the reason for said-celebration).  I just wanted to meet my word quota for the day, put the computer down and spend a few hours doing nothing in the least bit consequential.

Well…

Two hours into my 500 word trek, I looked down at my screen to find I had written precisely one sentence, and a lousy sentence at that.

Usually the first 10k of a novel comes pretty easily for me. If I’ve got the plot nicely outlined, I can pick and choose what I want to work on for that day with remarkable ease. For example…

In the mood to write some lovin’?

Not a problem!  I’ve got a dozen or sex scenes all ripe for literary scandalization.

Got a hankering for some banter?

Sure thing! There’s something like 30k of repartee waiting to be had.

Fisticuffs? Heart-pounding action? Drama dripping with the dramatic?

Let me flip to the end of the outline and there’s bound to be some juicy violence there.

However…

*sighs*

Yeah, however.

One stinking sentence after two hours of toiling.

To put an exclamation point to my futility, I ended up deleting that one stupid sentence altogether. (It truly was crap.)

So, at that point, I quit. I walked away from the whole thing and didn’t look back. I then proceeded to selfishly lose myself in my Xbox, like any responsible, professional, author would do.

Yep, that’ll show stupid, old Book Three.

*rolls eyes, while giggling just a little*

Here’s hoping your Tuesday is a bit more productive than my Monday was.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

An Un-Hallmarked Moment

A rose from my garden.

A tip of the hat to me for outwitting Hallmark.

Today I celebrate my 19^th Prozac Anniversary, a holiday the queen card company has yet to come up with a card for.  Truly a disappointing blunder by their marketing people.

*smirks*

It was 19 years ago today that I took my very first dose of Prozac. A momentous turning point in my life despite how outright silly it sounds to say.

The beginning of the end of my panic attacks directing every aspect of my life had arrived.

And while my panic disorder still prohibits me from a number of significant things most people, I imagine, take for granted, it no longer rules every moment of my every day.

So, today I celebrate the little miracle granted to me 19 years ago today.

Everybody, please have a smile on me this morning or perhaps an unexpected giggle this afternoon. I, for one, will be basking in the bright, bright sunshine of my little, un-Hallmarked blessing.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

P.S…. A return to more “normal” authorly blogging is promised for tomorrow.

This is not London

Sunday has rolled in all cuddled up in a wooly bank of fog.

Very atmospheric if it was London in November. Seeing as how it’s northern Florida in late July, however, it really kind of stinks.

But, hey, I’m willing to roll with Mother Nature’s punches.

Ain’t no fog that can take Chloe Stowe down!...

*winces*

Alright that was admittedly ridiculous.

It was also a big, fat lie. Heavy, grey skies can gather a depression in my head with alarming speed.

However, that’s not going to happen today.

Nope.

I’m going to be chipper, d**n it!

Frolicking will freaking occur with regularity and glee.

I might even be able to cough up a giggle and a guffaw from time to time…

Which is most likely the reason my dog is scratching pitifully at the front door with her bags packed.

*sighs*

Oh well.

Maybe the fog will lift soon and the creative juices will start to flow again (right now they’re moving at the clip of molasses heading uphill).

Well, wish me luck in surviving this Sunday and I’ll wish you the same.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Frosting Earned

Cupcakes for all!

*coughs into fist*

*realizes I’m sounding a bit royal there*

*tries again…*

Cupcake! Cupcake! Cupcake! Everyone gets a cupcake!

*winces*

*realizes I’m just being loud and annoying now*

*gives up on the whole cupcake deal and moves on…*

What we were all supposed to be celebrating up there is this: The “Six Brothers” Chapter Outline / “Am I doing this right?” package is not only complete but was packed off to my agent yesterday afternoon!

Yep, told you that deserved a cupcake.

And notice that I was including each and every one of you in the frosting and cake fest. As much as I’ve been whining and worrying about the stupid “Six Brothers” thing, you all deserve some compensation for your tremendous patience.

Hence, cupcakes for all!

*realizes that really doesn’t sound as royal as it does grateful*

*smiles and decides it’s perfect then*

Ok, everybody get out of here!

Early dismissal today.

Go and rock your Saturdays, people!

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Wrecked & Wry

*kicks tires of my stalled imagination*

*curses*

*stomps off determined to do this posting without the old clunker of creativity*

*the blog auditorium empties at a frankly embarrassing rate*

*clears throat and begins anyhow…*

I worked on the Six Brothers project yesterday just to prove to myself that I could.

Well, I could.

Bravo, me.

I’ve got all the major characters’ identities shrunk down into a “Players” board that can be sent off to my literary agent. With my highly touted (at least in my own mind) detailed chapter outline, I think I could actually have a reasonable package to send to Tish early next week.

Now, what I’m expecting back from my agent is a mystery even to me.

I think I’d just like some kind of nod as to the direction I’m taking the story she’s so anxious for me to write. But since I’m a newbie at the whole agented-writer bit, I have no idea if that’s something which is done or not?

I guess we’ll see together… because of course I’m dragging your butts right along with me in this madcap publishing adventure.

Lucky, lucky you, right?

Ok, apparently my latent sarcasm has replaced all creativity today, so I’ll leave you before I do our relationship irreparable harm with my wryness.

*smirks*

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Fighting the Fade

Getting reacquainted with characters you haven’t seen in a while can be rather, well, demoralizing.

Case in point: Sabella and Conyer from my West Africa novel.

After spending the majority of last year working on The Sun and the Sand Cat, a reasonable person would think that getting back in sync with the good doctor and the special agent would be a breeze.

Wrong.

Big, demoralizing wrong.

Oh, I remember the details.

Her backstory is still crystal clear in the old noggin.

His work travails are still carved cleanly in my memory.

But…

Sabella’s cadence of talk and thought has faded into a warm hum I have to struggle to hear.

The sun has bleached Conyer’s intensity into something unrecognizable.

Recapturing the tone of the novel (3/4 of the way done, remember) is like trying to catch fireflies in a bright noon sky.

Yep, demoralizing.

But…

Challenging.

And I am a sucker for a good challenge!

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Seafaring Coward

Ok, change of plans.

*the crowd snickers*

Alright, admittedly my plan-making as of late has left a lot to be desired.  The thought has been there. The desire has been keen, but the execution has been, well, rather crappy.

For two days I’ve been all set to put some hurt on the Six Brothers synopsis. I’ve been raring to go on bullying that darn chapter outline into two pages of coherency.

Well, best laid plans of mice and men and all that jazz.

Yesterday, after floundering quite embarrassingly on the Six Brothers for more hours than I wish to recall, I retreated to a known entity: the third book in “The Lion and the Steed” series.

Yeah, yeah, I know. Go ahead and say it.

“soccer mom in the second row yells helpfully, “Coward!”*

Spot on, ma’am. Thank you.

I didn’t linger too long on it, however. So it wasn’t as much a case of hiding in familiar romantic smut as a case of re-gathering my authorly wits in welcoming territory.

*the snickers return*

Like I said, I didn’t stay with book three the entire work day. I actually took a dip in The Sun and the Sand Cat for several hours and it is in these modern day West African waters I have decided to sail for a while.

With only another 10 to 15k to go on the agented romance, I need to get it done.

Hence, change of plans.

So, if anybody is looking for me today please check the gold mines of Guinea. Me and my authorly wits will be hanging out there for a while…

At least, that’s the plan.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Do Not Answer That Door

I had a bit of an unexpected visitor yesterday.  My 16^th novel apparently did not appreciate being tucked away in the “Done!” closet and dropped by for crumpets yesterday afternoon.

Yes, I did say crumpets.

Frank (my specter of imminent failure) and his loud-mouthed parrot, Lola, shouldered their way in the front door alongside Pound’s copy edits.

I was not pleased.

Bits and pieces of my Six Brothers’ project had been meticulously strewn out over the couch, the floor, the tables all primed and ready for the attention the Revolutionary War mainstream romance so richly deserves.

Twenty-one chapters, ten (more or less) major characters and a trunk load of notes were tacked on walls, hung from ceiling fans, and, in one rather ugly case, harnessed to my dog’s back all ripe for Chloe’s talented hands…

*Frank chunks a crumpet at my head and whines, “Geez, get on with it, will ya?”*

Fine.

To put it shortly…

Pound’s edits showed up about week earlier than I had expected.

The edits were well-done and handled quickly and professionally.

Bits and pieces of Six Brothers were then collected and packed back up for another day.

I sighed.

My dog sighed.

Frank and Lola did a little jig… my manic self-doubt thrives on copy edit days.

So, today I will try again to turn my attention back to the Six Brothers… as soon as I shove the freezer up against the front door.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Blanketing Skirmish

Blanket trailing behind me, hair mussed to the point of hilarity, I drag myself downstairs and plop down on the couch.

My laptop scowls at me from across the room.

I scowl back.

My dog grrrs.

With the early morning air sizzling and snapping with intensity, the confrontation between writer and computer lingers for long, stress-filled minutes.

Neither party blinks.

Time lumbers by.

Eventually, I fold.

My dog sighs at the limp noodle she’s got as her owner.

I write.

- -

And so here I am.

The writing of these posts have become almost second nature to me so that’s not why I’m dragging my butt this morning.  It’s the diving headfirst into a new project that’s got me more or less hesitant about greeting the work day.

The Six Brothers project (Revolutionary War mainstream romance) is impatiently awaiting its synopsis to emerge gloriously from its chapter outline (which, if you remember, is unbelievably complete and really, really good, in my unbiased opinion *lol*).

The Sun and the Sand Cat (contemporary, mainstream romance set in West Africa) continues to sit ¾ complete with my literary agent nudging me to get it done so we can finally pander the thing to the publishing houses.

The third and probably final installment of “The Lion and the Steed” series has just popped its head over the horizon. It and its October deadline is waving at me jauntily.

So, I must decide which novel gets my attention next, as in today, as in now.

I hate making these big decisions.

*sighs*

Anybody up for a game of Eenie-Meenie-Minie-Mo?

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Idling Post

My last day of chilling has arrived.

Tomorrow my toes will be pulled out of the cool waters of “I don’t have to write and you can’t make me!” and placed firmly beside my nose back on the old grindstone…  (of course the contortions this move will require will be quite comical and potentially horrifically painful, so stay tuned for updates).

Hmm, now what other old saying can I mangle and mar this fine Sunday morning?

As you can see, my creativity continues to idle in neutral today.

I would turn it completely off but then I’d be leaving you kind folks high and dry. And that would simply be unacceptable.

So, excuse the puttering and sputtering of the engine today. What’s important here is that the ol’ girl is still running and providing you hardy souls with a post.

*man in the fourth row loudly complains “But this post is crap!”*

*Chloe nods*

*Chloe’s dog nods*

True. It is less than stellar…

*”Crap! Crap! Crap!” the crowd begins to chant*

*Chloe gulps*

*dog scrambles for the exit before rotting produce is thrown*

Alrighty-then. I think I will leave it there for today.

Until tomorrow, when the engine will be purring like a panther…

Chloe

Where is My Cudgel?

I’d like to take this opportunity to blame not only the lateness of this blog but also my frazzled, squiggling nerves on the… aphid.

The yellow aphid.

The vampirish hordes of yellow aphids on my milkweeds to be perfectly precise.

I have spent my morning trying to hose off, pick off, scrape off with both paintbrush and paper towel, and knock off with cudgel, mace and hammer the little sunny-colored beasts from my flowers.

I have succeeded for the most part, with my mother acting as both co-combatant and steely bastion to my “Are they on me? I can feel them. They’re in my hair!” freak-outs. (I don’t do bugs. At all.)

I survived however.

My mother survived, although a little worse for wear.

And the majority of the milkweed blossoms survived.

Unfortunately, as mentioned in my opening sentence, my nerves are fried.

I pity my poor dog.

She’s going to have a very, very long day of soothing all my rough (i.e. psychotic, idiotic, annoying as all hell) edges.

I will end today’s blog with the following sentence said in my best pissed-off piratical brogue… “Curse those blasted aphids!”

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

P.S.  Apologies for this complete nonsense of a post. Sense, insight and non-bug subject matters will return tomorrow.

The Frolicking Hours

Freedom.

I’m feeling it.

Barefoot, hair down, I’m frolicking through a field of daisies, here.

Pound is off my shoulders, the bulk of work on book #16 is done as I wait for the edits, the cover and the release date.

Finally, a day with no “MUST WRITE”s has arrived!

Yep, I’m freaking frolicking with a big, crooked, goofy grin on my face and an incessant giggle to my voice... True, the neighbors are looking at me a bit strangely, but I don’t think any calls to the mental paddy wagon have been made just yet. *giggles incessantly*

I’ve got zero plans for my writing today.

I’m just going to open the gate to my imagination stables and see what comes thundering out. (Apparently, the first thing out of the gate is a really poor metaphor.)

Meanwhile, my fifteen pounds of four-legged taskmaster has collapsed on the couch and is currently chasing bunnies in her sleep.

Frank (the specter of my imminent failure) and Lola (his saucy, mimicking parrot) have gone out for the day. I’d like to imagine them fishing for piranhas in a really leaky boat but I never get that lucky.

Oh well.

Even though I know Frank and Lola will be back soon, I’m living it up with the bunnies in the daisies today!... as long as the lady next door doesn’t call the cops on me.

Until tomorrow…

An incessantly giggling Chloe

The Frayed Pencil

*grunts as another heavy box is dropped to the closet floor and shoved to the back*

*moves out of the way as another mouthful of papers, complete with slobber, is delivered, complete with disdain, to the closeted stack*

Yep, Pound is done and is currently being relegated to the “Sold and Completed and Get the F**k Out of My Head” corner of my life.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s a good book. It worked out really well although completely different than planned.

*sighs*

I really wish if characters are so determined to mix things up so late in the writing game that they’d send a note or something.

Just a little heads-up saying “Hey lady, we’re thinking about doing things a little different up in here. Hold on to your hat and your dog, it’s going to be one heck of a bumpy ride!” would be nice. Considerate, even.  

Oh, well.

My dog and my hat made it just fine, although both are little frayed around the edges at the moment.

I’ve still got the sell copy to write today but I hardly need a truckload of notes for that. So, it’s off to the closet with Pound!

*ducks as the dog chunks a wet and toothy notebook in my and the backroom’s direction*

I think I’m not the only one in this house ready to put Brevyn and Sam away for a bit. (Book Three of “The Lion and the Steed” series can wait a couple of weeks before getting revved up into actual words.)

Right now, I’m struggling just putting this blog together.

I think I sprained my brain.

Can’t wait to see what kind of sell copy I come up with for Pound in this condition… Perhaps a simple “Please read me” would suffice?

Uh-oh.

My dog is eyeing the stack of pencils on my desk.

Apparently they have the Pound smell about them.

 I’d really rather not suffer any impalement issues this morning, so I better go before she figures out what nifty projectiles they make.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

A Yawning Hope

Apologies for the later than normal posting of this daily blog.

As some of you just might be aware of (as if I don’t yap about it incessantly), the deadline for my 16^th novel (Pound) was last night.

At 9:30 pm, the official “The End” was typed. The formatting I left to do until this morning so I would be working with a brain not completely numb with exhaustion.

It more or less worked (I hope). Anyhow, Pound is now sitting at the publishing house all wrapped up in pretty formatting bows (again, I hope…  brain’s still working at around 45% so who knows what kind of freaky things I might have accidentally done to the poor manuscript.)

So, with the mind ticker still fluttering below the fifty yard line (yeah, yeah, I know; a terrible mix of metaphors/similis/thingies there; again, apologies) I am cutting this posting very short and tagging it a real yawner, but it’s the best I can do today.

Please, please, return tomorrow when I promise something if not brilliant at least better (more hoping, there).

Now, go and have a great day… and try not to think of your blogger too poorly.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Apropos Pounding

Last day.

Pound is due midnight tonight.

I will not panic.

I will not panic.

Ok, I’m already panicking.

But…

I will not panic dramatically.

I will not return to the fetal position while wishing really hard for a nice, dark, safe womb to hide in.

I will not pound my head incessantly into the wall, despite how apropos that would be (the title of the book is Pound so… well, you get it).

I will not let my dog finish the book, even though at this point I’m sure she can write a heck of a lot better than me.

I will not simply turn the manuscript in as-is with a smiley face and a “Sorry” attached.

I will not run away to Fiji…. probably… at least not today.

*breathes deeply in through the nose, out through the mouth*

Alright, it’s time to do this.

Chloe Stowe book #16 is going down!

Until tomorrow...

Chloe

The Limoncello Vacuum

Short and pungent?

Maybe, short and briney?

Short and irrelevant would probably be the most accurate, but labeling the blog you’re asking people to read tiny and inconsequential would be just plain stupid.

So, we’ll go with short, spunky and unencumbered with material importance.

The short and unencumbered bit will work themselves out, so let’s deal with the spunkiness and get the heck out of here.

Two days left to finish Pound.

Halfway through finalizing its 50k words.

The men have just made it out of New York… *pauses pregnantly*… at the freaking HALFWAY point of the book!

Sicily is pissed.

This was supposed to be a book based in the little seaside village of Capo. A romantic madcap adventure in Italy with limoncello and pasta.

Yeah, well.

Sorry?

At this point in the proceedings, I couldn’t really care less where the darn story takes place. It just needs to get out of my head and onto the freaking paper!

*breathes deeply*

*calms down*

*waves at my dog who is safely in the backyard far, far away from me*

There. That’s all the spunkiness I can muster for you this morning.

Have a freaking good day.

*smirks*

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Playtime is Over

It’s crunch time, ladies and gentlemen.

Three days to go until the deadline for Pound.

And while it is true that my dog has moved the majority of her belongings outside (i.e. away from crazy woman) in preparation for this final push, I am surprisingly right on schedule! (The fact that an exclamation point was needed at the end of that sentence tells you just how rare my “on-schedule-ness” truly is)

So, for the next three days I will be finalizing 12k words a day.

By “finalizing” I mean…

-Making sure all the pretty connective tissue is in place between scenes.

-That all said-scenes agree with what came before them.

-Final fact checking on all the true tidbits and local flavor I insist on stuffing into my novels.

-The painful and oftentimes harrowing cutting of scenes. (This is why my dog is hiding in the garden. It can get pretty bloody around here. *lol*)

-Grammatical snazzing up. (The most boring process of finalization but really critical, unfortunately.)

And there you have it.

My next three days laid out for you.

Feel free to pull up a futon and wait this out in the backyard with my dog. Just watch out for the darn cat.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

When the Cat Strikes

Well, let’s see…

The morning got off to a jolly good start when the most obnoxious of the neighborhood cats tried to stage a siege of my tiny backyard.

Unfortunately for the feline contingent, my 15 pounds of snapping, snarling, I’m-as-big-as-a-mac-truck little dog was currently in said-backyard.  

Fortunately for the Chloe contingent still in her nightgown, there was no actual brawl. Only hisses and barks were exchanged before the cat retreated angrily back over the fence, foiled once again in its attempt at world domination.

Alas, my flower bed with its floundering daylilies (who really, REALLY hate my dirt and who threaten suicide weekly) paid the price for the cat vs. dog dispute. Who knew 15 pounds of raging fury could do so much damage with four little furry feet?

Thankfully, I believe all the daylilies will survive… even though I suspect at least one of the lily-darlings threw its depressed-self purposefully under the aforementioned four little furry feet.  (Yeah, trust me to have flowers with death wishes. *lol*)

To further brighten my morning, my dog (who was quite rightfully darn proud of herself) came strutting back into the house expecting not only a treat but a whole bonus meal as well.

After a long, face-to-face talk about 15-pounders needing to stay 15 pounds, that particularly matter was finally put to rest with only one of us left pouting on the couch.

At this point, I had been out of bed a grand total of twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes.

This can’t bode well for the day.

*sighs and bangs head firmly against the wall*

Until tomorrow (I hope)…

Chloe

Scraped Raw

Bottom line: The bloody Big Apple won’t let me go.

*looks down at fingertips scraped raw from a furious attempt at crawling across the Brooklyn Bridge”

Come on! The coast of western Sicily anxiously awaits me and my Pound guys’ arrival. Doesn’t anybody in New York freaking care?

For months (honestly, it seems like years at this point) a small though spectacular fishing village hugging a long necklace of sandy coves against its bosom has been eyeing the horizon for Book Two of “The Lion and the Steed” series. Little Capo has been making ready its charming harbor forever and I fear their patience is running thin.

But with only five days left until the novel’s deadline, have Sam and Brevyn even made it to JFK yet?

Nope.

The last time I saw their troublesome though gorgeous butts was in Gramercy Park. And let’s just say they were caught up in a lot of “hot and heavy.” That big old “Do NOT Disturb” sign was welded to their door and no amount of pounding, begging, cajoling or screaming on my part would get them headed in the right direction… the right direction would be SICILY!

Frank, my not-so friendly specter of imminent failure, has made himself quite a nest at the end of my couch at this development. I believe my mother is now crocheting an afghan for him.

Lola, his freaky parrot (an addition to my mania I really did not need), is busy rattling off random subway stops from the top of Frank’s fat head.

My ever loyal and “always looking for a rumble” dog has taken to shooting spitballs at the stupid bird’s head.

Stupid bird has creepy-good reflexes though and has avoided most of the barrage. Just my luck to have a particularly limber imaginary parrot, right?

Alright, I’m giving New York City one more day. That’s it.

And if that stupid bird knows what’s good for it, it better start shutting the heck up...

My dog’s just stomped off into the kitchen muttering something about Molotov cocktails.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Who Let the Sleaze in?

Beyond that single pane of glass.

Despite the stern admonition I made to myself and the world-at-large in yesterday’s post, a supporting character is now flagrantly running amuck in chapter one of Pound.

Curtis McEnnis, a high-priced but incredibly sleazy divorce attorney, arrived on scene yesterday morning and is mercilessly trying to wrestle the first chapter limelight away from my leading man.

*straightens spine*

*hardens gaze into something, well, menacing*

*dumps a ton of grit into the voice and commands…*

This must not be allowed to continue!

All minor role mayhem will cease immediately or all character actors for this production will be fired immediately!

*dog walks by and rolls her eyes on the way to the window and the sanity she sees beyond that simple pane of glass*

In all seriousness, what is wrong with me?

Give me a character whose story spans exactly one stinking scene and my creative juices turn all frenetic, viral and, well, giddy.

Giddy juices are a bad, bad thing when the novel’s deadline is a scrawny six days away.

And dear Mr. McEnnis, the spawn of just such hyper-happy juices, must be excised immediately!

*deflates and sighs*

Of course, I really can’t do that at this point. The jerk does play an important, though supposedly very brief, role in the leading man’s re-introduction to the audience.

Bottom line: it’s too late to replace the sleaze-ball now.

But let me assure you, Mr. McEnnis…  

*re-straightens spine*

*re-hardens gaze*

*re-gravels the voice*

As my dog is my witness, you will not see Chapter Two!

Until tomorrow…

 

Chloe