Bone-Out

Had a bit of a “Oh crap! Is that bone?” moment yesterday.

*pauses, realizes an explanation is probably needed, sighs but musters on with it…*

Imagine this, if you will. You are walking across a room and you accidentally bang your leg on the corner of the coffee table. It smarts, stings quite sharply actually but it’s generally more annoying than anything. You glance down at your leg fully prepared to ream the limb out for being a clumsy oaf when you see your shin…

Your jeans are ripped open.

Your skin is ripped open.

Whatever musculature and other anatomical b.s. there was in your leg is flayed open revealing a stark streak of white, leading you to mouth in almost comical horror, “Oh crap! Is that bone?”

Yep. Had one of those moments yesterday.

Of course, being me the whole embarrassing exercise was psychological. You know, mental. All in my head.

I thought I was going to handle something perfectly ok for me.  Knew I was going to be nervous, but knew how to handle it. Then…

Bang! The old metaphorical leg hits the coffee table and there’s bone and stark white panic everywhere.

Needless to say, it was messy.

Doing better now. All the psychological b.s. is firmly back in place and I’m ready to face the world again.

Now, ain’t the world lucky?

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post Note: Another example of full disclosure fallout, I’m afraid. Sorry. Feel free to scrape this from your consciousness.

The Screen-Leapers

As nothing coherent is coming to mind this late Tuesday morning, let’s embrace the incoherency together.

The following is a gathering of words I seem particularly fond of today.

Just as a fisherman asks himself, “Hmm, I wonder what’s biting today?,” so this writer asks and answers “Hmm, I wonder what words leap upon the screen today?”

In no particular order, today’s screen-leapers are…

-twig

-phalanx

-moratorium

-princely

-confrontational

-plebian

-tactile

-pearlescent

Well, that was a silly endeavor with frankly troubling results.  

Let’s not tell my psychiatrist about this little exercise, agreed?

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Marginal Squeeze

Feeling a bit like a nearly spent toothpaste tube at the moment. Yesterday, after a tremendous amount of unwieldy wrestling, I was able to squeeze out 250 words from the old head.

While it was a sputtering affair, with stops and starts and messes on the mirror, work was done and I was able to actually sleep. (See yesterday’s blog for the nasty particulars.)

In fact, I got some work done on the one character of The Hushing Days with whom I’m still struggling to connect. However, if I have to put in a week of zero writing to come up with a 250 smidgeon of prose the novel is doomed. (I ain’t got that many centuries left in me.)

Oh well. I’m hoping to finagle out a few more hundred words out of the tube before tossing this week’s efforts in the bin. Waste not, want not I always say…

Ok, this post/analogy/daily crack-up is getting a little too strange even for me. Let’s end it while we’re both marginally sane.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Nominally Normal

As might have been guessed by particularly wily followers, I am in the middle of a family visit.

Good times. Great times, in fact. But writing time has been cut down to nil.

So, the devious monster that is my brain has been put to bed every night bright eyed and terribly bushy-tailed.

This is bad.

The only way I am granted a nominally normal sleep is if I exhaust my mind down to limpness during the day and take advantage of its exhaustion to grab a few winks.

Pretty twisted, huh?

Surrounded by the nominally normal of my family, I get incredibly tired of my mental peculiarities, quirks and thorny personal irregularities.

Just saying.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Wizened Coward

Gremlins are running amuck this morning.

One nasty little critter refused to allow me to open up Word. Then, once he finally allowed me in, he tripled every window. Again and again.

Another creepster latched onto my mother’s computer and demanded unspecified tribute for access to the Target Coupon Printer. Promising my first born seemed to work.

The rest of the troublemaking lot are stirring things up in the heavens to the point that twisters are forecast to screw down from the skies this afternoon. Lovely.

While I am momentarily ahead of the fiends and their mischief, I will wrap this post up early.

Sometimes scampering away in fear is preferred to standing and fighting. Remember that, young ones.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe the Wizened Coward

Of Mice and Cake: An Author's Debate

Can a successful (i.e. sellable) romance novel handle a male lead?

*Duh. M/M genre, hello. Not to mention dozens of mainstream affairs that follow the man instead of the woman. Next question.*

Is a successful (i.e. sellable) romance novel with a male lead a reasonable goal for an author’s second mainstream work?

*In theory, doable. A good book is a good book no matter how many mainstreamers an author has got under their belt.*

But I asked if it was reasonable? You know, smart? Savvy? Or would it be just plain foolhardy? Why bake a four layer cake with raspberry filling when a vanilla sheet cake will do?

*You’re you. Why start taking the easy way out now? Why go for the neon-colored door with “Success Inside” emblazoned upon it? Try to squeeze your crazy self through that mouse-hole behind the 500 lb. wardrobe. Go ahead. I dare you.*

Dare excepted.

I’d like to announce that my next mainstream historical romance will have a male lead.

Good day.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post Note: This is how my brain works. This is why I’m on medication. Any other questions?

Peek Performance

Call off the hounds. I am alive, well and now gloriously 43!

Yep, yesterday was my birthday. In a last minute, terribly selfish decision, a blind eye was turned to everything work related and my daily blog went the way of the poor Dodo.

Sorry about that.

Life separate from the written word is very important. I forget that sometimes. Writers often get so caught up in their literary fogs that they forget to peek outside and see what the world’s been up to while they’ve been away.

Yesterday, I peeked.

Oh, and what wonders did I see! (A Han Solo made of LEGOS; fluffy hills of buttercream frosting; Halloween goodies awaiting their first October! Yeah, wow.)

So, today, I return to the words wearing a buttercream smile upon my face and a fresh year under my belt.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe 

This is How You Do It

The Cad, the Hero and the Ingenue. The veritable trifecta of Romance Novel success.

In other words, the Good, the Bad and the Beautiful of every winning love story.

Yep, fit these three stock characters into an interesting yarn full of flowery descriptions and lurid sex and you’ve got yourself a best seller, baby!

Or so 9 out of every 10 how-to-write-a-publishable-romance claims.

Well, I claim that’s terribly boring.

Archetypes are fine and dandy to use, but I prefer to employ them in supporting roles rather than as the headliners. Of course, this is the exact opposite of how most writers seem to do it.

The off-color sidekick, the quirky neighbor, the acerbic mother-in-law, the pain-in-the-ass coworker. They’ve become so ingrained in our entertainment culture that they are almost expected in some form or other in every good story.

I try to turn that on its head.

The off-color leading man.

The quirky leading lady.

The charming-to-a-fault antagonist.

The acerbic narrator.

Now, these are some characters into which I can sink my writing teeth.

So, don’t be afraid to look at the publishing world and all its norms a little sideways. There is wriggle room out there. Believe it, and embrace it, baby!

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Bottling Eureka

Had a “Eureka!” moment yesterday in my research for my next novel. In fact, I’m still riding the buzz this morning.

Ahh, those are such gloriously rare moments!

I truly wish they could be bottled and saved for those terribly gloomy days in which creativity is a no-show and literary hope is nothing more than a lit candle in a gale.

*pauses, re-reads what’s just been written, shakes head sadly*

Apparently my little orgasmic moment has shorted out the metaphor station on my motherboard. I do try to keep the analogies, etc. on a single track for each post.

I do.

Really.

But today I’m just spitting out metaphors like poorly chewed tobaccy (sorry, my Southern is showing.)

Anyhow, just know I did real good and I’m annoyingly giddy about it. Forgive me.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Stranger in a Strange Land

Thought I’d share an authorial trick with you this morning. Feel free to try it on, strut its stuff in front of the mirror, perhaps twirl it prettily around while on your tiptoes. Or, of course, you could simply dismiss it altogether as useless fluff, you know like the lint in your front jeans pocket. Your choice, my friend.

When one of your stories has hit a rut and no longer surprises you, reach for the phone book. (I assume most of us still have one or two of those around these I-phone happy days.)

Flip to the white pages, pick a random page, close your eyes and point. Whatever name your finger has landed on is now a new character in your book.

Really.

No ifs, ands or buts.

Be it Freddie Finkelhauser or Maisy Dirt, they are in. Now, your job is to find a place for them.

Trust me, it can be terribly fun if you let it.

Whether you add this trick to your repertoire or not, thanks as always for stopping by.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

On the Fly

Alright, everyone, we’re facing one of those mornings when not even the tee-tiniest of a kernel of a good blogging idea can be found.

If I was a terribly responsible blogger, I would make a list of subjects to prattle on about on days such as these. A backup collection of post-points I could cannibalize whenever the need arises.

However, I make it a point never to plan ahead for these daily word-fests. Spontaneity, my anorexic ego claims, is the key to this blog’s continued success. I write whatever comes out of my pre-dawn brain in a bold and reckless act of “on the fly.”

Unfortunately, every so often, the old gray matter coughs out nothing but a big, fat dud.

So, boys and girls, let’s welcome this month’s dud to the stage.

Apologies, friends.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Milling About in the Wings

Quiet, please.

Just for a moment.

Now, listen really, really hard.

That scuffling you hear in the wings? That murmur of fervent whispers? Those impatient sighs at the theater’s backdoor? Well, ladies and gents, that would be the newly conceived characters from my next novel milling anxiously about.

While The Hushing Days is nearing its first round of full dress rehearsals, I have made the probably foolish decision to invite the next show’s crew into the playhouse.

Last night, I began picking out names for my yet un-named and definitely un-plotted book. Heck, all I’ve really got locked up right now are some really nifty locations and the genre tag of “historical, mainstream romance.”

Well, ok, now I’ve got four names, too.

Whether these monikers will belong to supporting or starring casts, or whether they will make the playbill at all is a matter completely up in the air. But whoever these characters turn out to be, they are now here. And they are milling.

This could be a colossal mistake.

This could also be darn entertaining.

Stay tuned.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Foreshadowed

With my self-imposed April deadline for The Hushing Days fast approaching, several realizations have occurred.

1.) It ain’t happening. The deadline, that is. Or rather, the deadline will indeed happen. It will fly merrily by without a glance at furiously working author, furiously furry muse or emphatically “Not Done!” novel. It is the hoped-for “The End” that will not be happening.

2.) I should be vexed about this. I’m not. In fact, I plan to wave cheerily at the deadline as it scurries on by. I’d even offer it a crumpet if I didn’t fear Frank (my specter of imminent failure) might pop out of whatever hidey-hole he’s been claiming as home these days at the mention of his favorite munchie.

3.) This non-vexed stance of mine means I’m either resigned to failure (clearly not, since I haven’t seen Franky-boy in months), crazy (which I am, psychiatrist-tested and all, but not about this) or confident. I don’t do confident. I might talk a good game at times but inside I’m just a trembling little nut scared of her own almond-scented shadow.

4.) Perhaps, just perhaps, and definitely without that c-word coming into it, I simply know that May holds that checkered flag. Call it a gut feeling. Just please don’t call it confidence.

5.) This blog was utterly pointless, I’m afraid. And I really should apologize for it, but I don’t think I will. Hmm… I wonder if that’s the c-word talking?  Nah, can’t be.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Politically Correct?

Having a bit of a row with political correctness of late.

Let me explain.

In the late Colonial period of American history, todays “Native Americans” were called “Indians” (along with really cruel epithets I’ll leave to your imagination).

So, when I’m writing a romance novel taking place in that time period is it alright for the narrator to use the word Indian?

The characters, of course, use the Indian terminology in their dialogue. Perfectly acceptable, I believe, to even the staunchest politically correct reader. However, when the narrator speaks (for instance, giving a brief summary of current events during an introduction to a chapter, etc.) what is the “right” word to use?

Personally, I think the narrator needs to stick with the vocabulary of the time. The disconnect, otherwise, would be too jarring.

However, others disagree.

My respect for the Native American culture runs deep. The last thing I want to do is perpetuate the “Indian” misnomer many of the culture is battling today.

I don’t know what’s right. As of now, I am leaning toward siding with the novel’s integrity… Yeah, I know, even that sounds bad.

*sighs, while pulling hair out from its roots*

I don’t have the answer, and I hate that.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Headline Grabbers

A bit of a news-heavy post this morning. Prepare accordingly.

First up is this spectacular headline: “Chloe Stowe and Riverdale Ave. Books Sign Five-Book Deal!”

Yep, your intrepid blogger has just signed the contract for Riverdale Ave. to re-publish my five currently “out of print” titles. Timetables for releases and such are still unknown. As always, I’ll let you know when I know.

Right now, I’m just celebrating the fact that the Chloe Stowe “brand” (no laughter, please) will invade another publishing house. My plan for literary world domination is right on schedule it seems (now, you can laugh).

Second headline of this Monday morning is really back-page material, tucked in with the Classifieds and the Comics:  “Another Psychiatrist Visit for Little Known Author.”

Yes, it’s that time again to put my funny little mind on the head-shrinker’s plate.

Despite the imagery, these appointments always go well and are hardly newsworthy to anyone besides me and the furry, four-legged muse. However, I include it as part of that full disclosure deal I signed with my followers back in January of ’14. You get it all, ladies and gents. But, please, feel free to crumple this back-page up and toss in the nearest bin.

And there you have the Chloe Stowe news of the day.

Now, back to regular programming.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

A Spot of Happenstance

There’s a spot of luck in creating a good story.

Not everything is planned, no matter how OCD’d the outline might be.

Sometimes, like in life, happenstance arrives and it is good.

As I’m sure you remember, there are three major storylines vining together in my newest novel The Hushing Days. With the concept of the book being based on a true story, there were certain parameters I couldn’t cross without feeling as if I’d “ruined” the whole thing.

So, plugging in this fact with that fact and intertwining it all with yards and yards of hand-picked fiction, I wasn’t expecting much of a surprise when I stood back and looked at the near-finished product.

But there a lovely, fateful happenstance was, beaming up at me with “Now, aren’t I just freaking beautiful?” eyes!

While I can’t go into details for fear of giving too much of the story away, I will liken it to this: Jumping out of an airplane at 10,000 feet, parachuting down to earth and finding, purely by happenstance, you’ve landed in a fairy ring of clover.

Yeah.

Wow!

Be open to happenstance, writers. Welcome it with open, clueless arms.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Old Chopping Block

Oh, I’m sure there’s a proper term for it. Some kind of smart designation for the practice. Perhaps there are even doctoral theses written on the subject. If so, someone way more studied than me can let me know. Until then, I’m just calling it “Readers’ Proxy.”

As my most hardy blog followers know, there have been several times in the writing of The Hushing Days in which I’ve contemplated axing one of the six core brothers.

Leo, the youngest, was the first on the chopping block, but thanks to his honey, whom is a delight to write, the gunsmith’s place in the novel is now assured.

Thackary was next, the lone brother without an obvious significant other. Since this is a historical romance and there were already a bunch of brothers to flesh out the family mood, the poor young man became iffy. However, that’s when dear Thackary took matters into his own hands and designated himself the Readers’ Proxy.

Let me explain.

Free from the throes of love, Thackary is able to keep a completely cool head. His thought processes are clear. Most times he appears to be only an observer in the novel’s machinations. So, he has a certain objectivity the other of the more major characters do not. This clear-headedness leads to an abundance of common sense. In other words, he asks the questions the audience really wants to know. He calls the characters out on their motives and doesn’t let them get away with any b.s..

Oh, I know what you’re thinking, but trust me, he is far from the embodiment of the story’s conscience.

The man is no Jiminy Cricket.

He is simply the audience’s voice. (Yep, there’s got to be a nifty term for that.)

So, Thackary is in.

Leo is in.

Time to put the old chopping block away for another day.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Blogness

It’s one of those mornings, dear people, when the blogness simply won’t come.

I’ve tried summoning it in all sorts of manners, including…

1.) Rain dance with my toothy muse… If the sky can churn out weirdness like hail, it should certainly be able to storm up a post. But, alas, no. Dizziness and nausea alone I was able to coax out of the heavens. No help to a hapless blogger at all.

2.) Lighting a candle and placing it in my window… This always works in soap operas to lure back supposedly dead lovers from their “The trick’s on you!” graves.  Again, nothing. (The big, scary moth flapping at my window pane does not count.)

3.) Closing my eyes and wishing really, really hard… Yeah, well, after 2 minutes and 43 seconds were lost to an impromptu nap, this strategy was abandoned. Pity. I really liked this one too.

So, I reluctantly concede defeat today. Put a big, fat check in the Failure column and let’s all try to struggle on with our lives, ok?

May the blogness be with you, my friends. (It certainly isn’t with me.)

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

A Singular Strand of Gold

Over the past weeks, I’ve made quite a fuss over how I equate a novel to tapestry. Multi-media tapestry, to be precise. (I somehow doubt that strips of cow leather, warm worsted yarn and cornflower blue satin ribbons have ever or could ever be weaved together effectively, but the strained little analogy remains in my head and hence in this blog. Lucky you.)

Anyhow, last evening while sitting outside in the cozy Florida dusk, a single gold thread of an idea landed upon my lap.

After nearly jumping out of my skin at the intrusion (my startle reflex is extraordinary), I held the tiny strand of a plot-point up to the retiring sun and smiled. It was exactly what The Hushing Days was missing.

So thin and so weightless, the miniscule trail of a storyline will surely be lost in the whole of the novel. But I will know that it’s there. And I will know that without that dusky thread of gold, the book wouldn’t hold together quite so charmingly.

Keep your eyes open for the strands of storyline that arrive in the twilight of a novel’s creation. They are often pure gold.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Binge-Researching

Wisdom escapes me this morning.

Coherency is tucking tail and fleeing too… But my four-legged, furry muse has got it cornered in the foyer. So please ignore all background snarling and snapping as we continue.

As of late, The Hushing Days has been suffering due to my woeful lack of sleep. The daily word count is down to a laughable sputter (i.e. less than 200 words a day). Yes, feel free to wince. I certainly am.

To bolster my ever-teetering literary self-worth, I have been “binge researching” on my next book. (There’s got to be a 12 Step Program somewhere for this.)

At least I am keeping my hand in the creative cookie jar, so to speak. I guess that’s something. Right?

Bottom line: Suffer a dry spell wisely. Do what you can while you wait for the rains.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post Note: Apologies for the gross and generally untidy mixing of metaphors today. Apparently all literary couth ran away with the wisdom and the spoon.

A Good Clamber

I’ve always enjoyed a good clamber.

You know, that awkward scrambling with hands and feet for not only purchase in life but for progress? Yeah, that. There’s a fondness there.

We’re talking love.

*several beats fall as the sarcasm settles*

Or, perhaps, it’s a bit more of a necessity.

A constant necessity.

Heck, it’s an exhausting fact when you’re stuck with my brain and its touchy offshoots of panic, OCD, and anxiety.

Lugging this squirming behemoth of a mental process around day to day freaking demands clambering. And whether I like it or not, I’ve become rather adept at the practice.

But, man, it’s tiring. Especially when all the little extraneous wiggling bits start feeling their oats and begin coordinating. At that point, all clambering turns to clumsy, desperate wrestling and nothing gets done.

Going through a stretch of that right now. So, apologies for my lack of direction today.

*sighs disgustedly*

Yep, I’ve always enjoyed a good clamber. In fact, I’m looking forward to getting back to it really soon.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Ease of Disposal

Thoughts for this Monday are numbered for easy disposal or speedy tucking away. Enjoy the ride.

1.) Despite all my haughty admonitions to the contrary, I have been skipping out and working on my next book (you know, the one that will be written AFTER The Hushing Days? AFTER being the keyword that keeps getting replaced by DURING. Bad, bad Chloe.) Surprisingly, this is working out quite well for the Hush-meister. The research I’m digging up for the book in the on-deck circle is adding tremendously to the drama currently up to bat, which leads to…

2.) It’s Opening Day! Yes, my Cubbies already played last night but I always consider Opening Day to be the date when all the teams, more or less, get rolling. My Rays will be opening up at the Trop this afternoon. Finally, baseball is back!!

3.) Here’s a researching hint for you. If you’re looking for some dirt on an off-the-wall subject, search doctoral papers. PhD students are phenomenal trivia-hoarders.

4.) Surprisingly, I didn’t mind the new jumbo-screen at Wrigley Field much at all. It seems to fit in really well, which is a real compliment coming from a girl who was very wary of the lights being put up at the park in ’88. (I still say “Day baseball rules!”)

5.) My muse/dog needs a haircut. Badly. I’ve begun the process of emergency trimming. We both hate the process of emergency trimming. All unessential travel to Chloe’s is ill-advised.

And there you have 5 gems of questionable wisdom to bin in the appropriate slot. You’re welcome.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe and the beast

Simplicity

It’s Easter.

There is little else in this world more important to say.

Rejoice in the day’s glory however and wherever you may find it.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Self & Muse

As much as I’m eager to gather up all my spare moments and scramble into the crafting of my next novel, caution is urged here.

“Whatever for?” the inquiring furry, four-legged muse asks from her perch on my right hip. (My dog loves a good bout of researching. She gets to snuggle at my side without having to put up with all the histrionics that accompany a pure writing spell, i.e. teeth-gnashing, cold sweat, heart palpitations and the occasional keening wail to the literary gods.)

Alas, the answer to “Whatever for?” is a rather undeniable one.

When writing in a new genre (in my case, jumping from m/m to mainstream romance) patience is demanded.

“You are not experienced here,” I keep having to tell myself. “You don’t know for certain what works in these waters, yet.”

This is true. My current project, The Hushing Days, while having terribly excited my literary agent, has not been sold yet…

“In fact, woman, you haven’t even finished it! Now, get your scrawny behind back to the grindstone! Worry about tomorrow when you get done with freaking today. Don’t make me tell you this again, sweetheart.”

(At this point, my dog/muse/touchstone-to-reality has scurried to the other end of the couch. I really don’t blame her. My “pep talks” can often be degrading, rude, and rather sneering.)

So, all my gathered-up spare moments will be retrained immediately back upon The Hushing Days. Boring, but indeed sensible.

Ok, since this post has no redeeming merit whatsoever so I will end it here before either Self or Muse gets tetchy again.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Imbue Wisely

Artists have this habit of sticking themselves into their work.

Sometimes it’s an obvious self-portraiture, a la Velazquez in his “Las Meninas.” (Velazquez is the painter painting in the mirror in the painting. About as obvious as it gets.)

Sometimes, the snapshot is a little more tricky, a la da Vinci in his “Adoration of the Magi.” (The young boy to the far right is said to be a young Leonardo, but nobody really knows.)

Of course, some artists just slap the big, old “Self-Portrait” title to their work and anything from an installation of trashcans and lollipops, to a stick figure drawn in crayon becomes the artist’s self-crowned proxy.

Writers, and make no mistake we are artists in our own right, have a few different options available to them.

1.) The obvious choice is to stick yourself in as the narrator… Boring, in my opinion. Lacks imagination, lacks cunning.

2.) Plop a full-fledged “You” into the story. Of course, names would have to be changed, clever disguises would have to be employed (devilish fun, by the way). However, rarely does a “You” honestly fit into the storyline. Most often it’s like sticking a cranberry into a bowl of vegetable soup. You may get away with it, but it’s darn uncomfortable if you don’t.

3.) The preferred method is to imbue only parts of “You” into the story. A fascinating line of your life history pinned into the background of your lead character, perhaps. A personality quirk that you and your off-the-wall supporting player share. A physical trait. A speech pattern. A favorite hobby. A flaw. All are fair game.

Bottom line: it’s your choice. Imbue wisely.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Intent

When I’m having a particularly tiresome moment of barring all the grey matter between my ears from jumping the barbed-wire, Prozac-tinted fencing the doctors and I have so carefully erected and lickety-splitting into Panic Land, I can’t help asking myself “Why?”

No. Not “Why bother?”

Never, ever “Why bother?”

That answer is very clear. Panic Land is a bad, bad place. Avoiding it at (almost) all costs is mandatory.

M-A-N-D-A-T-O-R-Y.

Got it? Good.

But that still leaves the “Why?”

Everything happens for a reason. I believe that passionately. I must. Some days that’s the only way to get through.

So, when I find myself in a bloody skirmish at the weakest points of my aforementioned fence, I ask myself, “What’s God got up his sleeve now?”

Or at least I try to. Sometimes I’m so busy feeling sorry for myself, I forget to ask until the smoke has cleared and the bodies have been removed from the battlefield.

Well, it’s one of those mornings when the smoke is still hanging low in the air and the Red Cross is still busy at work in my head. So, when I woke up today and asked the belated “Why?”, the only answer I got was this post.

Admittedly, that’s a rather lame answer and one I could very well be making up in my own war-weary head, but I’m going for it.

So, I hope this little bit of emotional gutting helps someone out there to realize that they’re not alone.

Hang in there, my friends.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe, the far from battle-hardened

The Wiggle Room Clause

Call it wiggle room or an escape clause.

Call it the lock-picking kit you keep in your left coat pocket.

Call it the spare handcuff key you tuck away in your shoe.

Whatever you choose to dub it, every outline a writer crafts should have that emergency exit built into it.

As I’ve complained or touted a million times in this blog, my current project, The Hushing Days, is being sculpted around an extremely detailed scene-by-scene outline. This is new for me, an author who in the past had preferred working with a quickly sketched skeleton over an embroidered cadaver. 

Determined to stick to this knew game-plan and not allow myself room to weasel out of it, I tried to fine tune the outline down to its every corpuscle.

Silly, silly me.

Apparently my subconscious (often the villain in my life story) knew this would be a mistake and stuck that aforementioned handcuff key into the heel of my sandal.

Chapter 17, the only chapter not to include a scene-by-scene account of every interaction, had been simply left vague. Basically it said, “The secret is found out. Emotional mayhem ensues when the liar is confronted by all parties.”

Voila! The handcuff key.

Yesterday, I grabbed that sucker and used it. I simply let my creative juices run free, letting them take my characters wherever the imagination flowed.

And it was good.

Heck, it was great.

Every writer needs a little room to run free from time to time. Every author needs the wiggle room to spread his/her wings and create on the glorious fly.

Bottom line: A handcuff key in the shoe is a very good thing.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe