Reckless Endangerment of a Mind

I’m playing reckless with my sanity, I’m afraid. Going to Europe tomorrow? What the heck was I thinking?!

When I made the arrangements back in October, I was actually going to go by myself. (No laughing, please. I can be very brave sometimes.)

However, thankfully, my mother is going to be able to go with me. (Please join me in applause!) We’ll no doubt have a stellar time. We always do.

Still…

I’m freaking.

No room for excitement. I’m all jacked up on terror.

*sighs*

But I’m doing this. My panic disorder might shove a lot of things out of my reach, but not this.

Not. This.

So, please, wish me sanity, and I’ll wish you all a wonder-filled 11 days!

Until Monday, April 11…

Chloe

The Muscling of Dreams

Castles in the air must be muscled to the ground. They can’t be allowed just to bob along amongst the pastel-kissed clouds and brilliant rainbows.

Few of us will ever grow wings strong enough to get us to that dream’s front door. A sad fact, I know.

So instead of just letting them float away and dissolve into sweet memories, we must lasso these castles by their keeps and tug them down into reach.

I, ladies and gents, have tugged.

On Thursday, March 31, I will be flying to Italy!

For ten days, I, the perpetually grounded nutter, will take Milan and Venice by storm.

Yep. Really. Honest to goodness truth.

So, needless to say I suppose, this blog will enter a small hiatus starting on Thursday and continuing through April 10 while I tackle a selfish dream or two.

Now, please, excuse me, while I go throw up in my shoe.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Martian Carrot

I’m on the scent.

Like bloodhound nose to the ground, floppy tail to the air, I am on the trail of something bloody exciting!

In the nascent days of the hunt for novel #19, I have stumbled across a juicy historical find that is ripe for literary license.

Not wanting to spend another FIFTEEN months writing a single novel (wouldn’t mind if I was getting paid, but I’m not, yet, so no), I’ve decided to stick to historical romance set around the American Revolution. Since I have the post-Colonial basics down in my head, I can concentrate all the researching efforts on the novel-specific details.

In more colorful words: instead of having to learn how to live on Mars this writing season, I can concentrate all my labors on a more focused activity, like the growing of Martian carrots.

…

Ok, now that this post has denigrated into alien vegetation, I think I’ll just go.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Peace Out

Easter should never be dank and dreary.  It goes against all things good and hopeful.

Unfortunately, Easter is dank and dreary this year. And I, being a meteorological sponge, am nothing but muck and mire today.

So, in lieu of passing out Cadbury Eggs and Peeps, I am instead choosing to gift silence.

Peace be with you, my friends.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Adrift

For the first time in 15 months I’m feeling adrift… and it’s delightful.

Flat on my back, face to the sun, the literary waves carrying me wherever they will, I have not a thing to do.

I think I might just smile for a while.

Oh, the sea gulls will come and start pecking at me to get busy in due time, but until then I believe I will just luxuriate in a rare self-satisfied grin.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Tangled but Proud

The Hushing Days has just now been formatted, read through with a moderately fine-tooth comb (I’m tired, people, Ok? Can’t promise I caught all tangles, but it does look pretty) and sent off to my agent!

Before it heads anywhere else, I will, of course, run through it again with the traditional OCD-toothed comb.

Now, excuse me while I go collapse in an ungainly and totally illiterate heap.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Chattel Awakens

As the final read-through of The Hushing Days stares me in the face this morning, I recoil slightly at the cocky, “Bow before me, chattel!” smirk aimed my way.

Yes, I’m feeling rather owned by the manuscript.

Bullied by it, if you will.

Well, that nonsense has to stop.

Today.

Now.

So, wish me well as I confront the novel one last time before it is shoved at my literary agent.

If you’ll excuse me, I have a hard hat and a baseball bat to find.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

To Storm the Castle

A brief blog before the babysitting duties ramp up again. (Lessons in Physics and Trigonometry loom as my 5 ½ year old nephew is very serious about his castle-storming strategy.  Perhaps, he’ll allow me a cheat sheet with my lone ogre?)

Tomorrow, I’m hoping to get The Hushing Days sent off to my agent. I need to make one final read through before formatting the beast.

Hmm, perhaps my nephew could give me a few pointers in wrestling to the ground a 97k word monster? I’ll try to squeeze in the question while my ogre and I duck catapulted boulders.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Parenthetical Poop

Ok, admittedly I’m a smidge late today. (smidge=12 hours)

And after babysitting my 5 ½ year old nephew for 8 hours I am grossly exhausted mentally, physically and philosophically (he’ll be spouting Plato at me within the week… and yes I will be taking notes and gleaming pointers).

So, I have very little useful to relate to you today. (Hardy apologies for that.)

But know that while the posting schedule will be screwy for a while, your blogging crackpot is still here (on your windowsill next to the bird poop, no doubt).

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Pulp

Go ahead and squeeze.

There’s not a creative juice left in this girl.

Everything I’ve ever had is in the now complete The Hushing Days.

So, instead of forcing my literary shell on you, let me just say that tomorrow will be another travel day. I will see you guys on Tuesday.

Until then…

Chloe

A Brief Hallelujah!

Mark this hour, ladies and gents…. The Hushing Days is DONE!!!!

97,069 words.

Please allow me a brief “Hallelujah!”

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Labors' End

The deadline arrives at midnight.

Three weeks of frantic writing, cutting, pasting, re-cutting, repasting, binning it altogether, then dumpster-diving to get it all back will mercifully come to an end.

The Hushing Days will be done tonight!

All that’s left to do is the last chapter (reasonable, don’t you think?) and, well, the first (this is why I’m on a truckload of Prozac, ok?).

If I do indeed get novel #18 done today, I will post the news here on my blog tonight. You’ve suffered through well over a year of me writing this behemoth, it’s only fair for you to be among the first to celebrate its end.

So, keep your fingers crossed that I’ll see you tonight!

Until tomorrow (or tonight, please, please let it be tonight)…

Chloe

Great Expectations

Freaked just a little as I finished my writing early yesterday.

Actually had time to think about what I’ll write next.

Mistake.

Thought process roundup: “It doesn’t matter what you’re going to write next since what you’re writing now (for over a stinking year) is NEVER going to sell. You will go back to penning poor-paying smut. The Hushing Days manuscript will end up in a box under the badminton set in the garage. One day, your nephew will be taxed with disposing of the literary clunker and will shake his sweet head and sigh “Poor, spinster Auntie. She was so silly,” as the stinker of a book finally finds its home in the garbage can next to the rotting banana peels.”

Well, let’s just say the day soured after that.

On a brighter note… 10 peas down. 9 to go.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: Again, I’d refer you to Tuesday’s “Counting Peas” post for further illumination on that last bit. Don’t put old Auntie under the badminton set just yet.

Keep Moving

I often fall into puddles of Gorilla Glue.

I’ll be strolling along, keeping up a nice clip on the authorial road to novel done-ness, when I inevitably trip over a nice, benign scene.

The next thing I know I’ve face-planted myself in a glob of cement-like ick that refuses to let me or the story move on until I fix whatever needs fixing.

Usually, I don’t mind this. I don’t. But when a deadline is three days away and I’m running on my last literary breath, I could really do without the freaking stuckness!

That said, pardon the gore. I ripped my face out of a spot of Gorilla Glue yesterday and will be quite messy to look at for a while.

Five peas off the plate Wednesday. Fourteen to go!

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: Yesterday’s “Counting Peas” blog will explain that last little bit. So, no, I haven’t gone completely bonkers quite yet.

Counting Peas

A mulish five-year old in front of a plate of peas has nothing on me.

Let me explain.

Yesterday, I picked apart the remaining to-do’s on The Hushing Days and spread them all out in front of me.

Nineteen tasks stared back at me.

I moaned. I whined. I may have even thrown a little fit. “But, Mommy, there’s so many of them! I’m going to be here forever!”

Just like a child with nineteen peas between him and a mountain of fresh-from-the-box LEGOs, I pouted.

*sighs*

Don’t worry. I’ll stuff the nineteen down somehow. Might have to slip a few into my pocket, but my plate will be clean and I will get to play with my LEGO’s… but the process is not going to be pleasant.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Strawberry Fields

Well, this is simply not working.

Blogging this morning, that is.

The life stuff is churning along, if a bit awkwardly. (Ever feel like the world is a giant strawberry fest and you showed up sporting an okra? Awkward.)

Even the whole The Hushing Days deadline-thing is going surprisingly well. (Five days to go and I’m feeling good about making it. Knock on wood. Cross fingers. Throw a block of salt over your shoulder.)

But this blogging lark simply ain’t flying. (The fact that I just used the word “ain’t” is proof enough of that, I believe.)

So, let’s just dismiss early today, folks, and go have a piece of strawberry pie.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe, the Okra of Your Life  

Here We Go.

Oh, dreaded Chapter Nineteen, where everything comes together and where all could so easily fly apart!

I have put editing this explosive little bugger off long enough. With six days left until The Hushing Days deadline, it is time.

*cue the “Jaws” music… in Surround Sound, please*

Expect carnage, ladies and gentlemen.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Singularity

I’ve seemed to have miscounted, misallocated or heck just plain misunderstood.

For months and months and, dare I say, months I have been droning on about the three storylines in The Hushing Days (troublesome novel #18).

Which plot is the lead? Can there be co-plots that share equal time and equal sweat? (My sweat, mind you; the three plots did little more than bask languidly in my obsessive attention) Can an ensemble historical romance be successful in a publishing world of lone storyliners?

You’ve suffered through these machinations with me. You know the pain.

Well, guess what? There’s only one freaking storyline.

One.

ONE!

Yesterday, in some cosmic moment of everything coming together and singing “We are the world”, the three plots merged into one glorious tale.

It would have been beautiful if I hadn’t wanted to strangle its whole nutty one-ness!

*deep breath, deep breath*

I’ve got a week left to get this thing done and no more rabbits better pop out of this hat. Just saying.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Denouement

Should a denouement ever surprise its author?

When all the teeny-tiny plot points are put together and explained away in one final tell-all moment, should the writer of said moment ever be the one left most slack-jawed of all?

Oh, probably not.

But…

Leave the door open to a surprised gasp from yourself. An author’s dumbfounded double-take at their own denouement is bloody fun in a controlled environment.

So while I always shut that final door on the story firmly, I never, ever lock it.

If brilliance once to sneak in at the very last moment, let it.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Cut!

I do enjoy a fine set of scissors. I’m forever cutting out pictures and sayings from old magazines and tacking them in journals, notebooks, box covers and the like. Inspiration, you know?

Scissors, though, are rarely allowed within eyesight of my manuscripts. I’m a hoarder of words and once I write something down I plan to keep it until the pauper’s grave has me. (Bad, bad writing form, I admit.)

So, I was thoroughly surprised to find my scissors heading toward The Hushing Days (long-labored book #18) with glee yesterday.

In fact, I actually posted a net loss in word count Thursday… and was happy about it.

I believe I’ll take this as a sign of my maturation as a writer instead of as a concerning dip into self-mutilation.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe  

Awaiting the Gerbil

There is a buzz of accomplishment about me this morning.

A merry hum of success.

A trailing whistle of progress…

And a gentle snore of a dog.

Yesterday, the furry muse and I completed all the edits for the main storyline of The Hushing Days! We are exhausted but happy. Two major subplots to go and we can call my 18^th novel done…

Of course, by then I’ll be in a straitjacket somewhere dictating those last paragraphs to an imaginary gerbil.  

Oh, well. I do hope the little fellow can at least type.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Open-Ended

Surprised myself a bit yesterday and left an encounter open-ended. You know, open to the reader’s interpretation entirely?

Oh, I give clues as to what might have happened, but I never give answers.

Normally, I would never allow myself to hand over so much control to my audience.

Normally, I’m a micro-managing fiend.

I don’t know whether to feel reckless, naughty or kick-ass brave about this decision…

*sighs*

Great, another open-ender. I do hope this isn’t becoming a trend.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Never Stay Past the Bubbles

Oh, the lessons learned in writing The Hushing Days! Thought I’d share a few over the next little bit. Pick and choose those you think are helpful. Dispose of the rest inelegantly if you like.

Up first, The Tubbing Caution…

Never drag out writing a book over an entire year. I don’t care how long the book must be, how complicated the plot must appear or how historically accurate it must at first glance seem. Ten months, I believe, is a reasonable limit. Any time longer and the bathwater has cooled, the bubbles have died and a shiver has taken up residence in your spine.

(Oh, don’t worry. I won’t curse you with these every day. Just a spot of fun I can fall back upon when the old writing well runs dry.)

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Late Bloomer

Remember a few months back when I’d rattle on incessantly over which of the three storylines was the lead in The Hushing Days? I tell you, I worried that conundrum down to a bloody nub. Of course, I never came up with a definitive answer. (Do I ever in these OCD-led rants?)

Well, 90K words into the novel and I finally have my answer! (No snickering, please. A late-bloomer is still a flower, after all.)

In the end (nearly literally, in this case), these questions work themselves out. Sometimes authors (especially those on an absurd amount of Prozac) over-evaluate the technical things.

My advice? Don’t sweat the tech. You’re an artist not just an engineer.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Point of Reversal

There comes a point when writing any long novel where the old admonishment of “Show, not tell” must be turned on its head. “Tell, not show” becomes the new mandate.

Every author and every novel, I suppose, have their own unique point of reversal. A moment when both writer and book say, “That’s enough! Stop yammering about it and just give the good people the facts.”

At 88,800 words, I and The Hushing Days have reached ours.

Yes, I have finally reached the point where I’m allowing myself to recount a conversation instead of actually writing it. How surprisingly liberating it is!

Tell, not show.

It’s a marvelous stratagem I do wish my mind would allow me to employ before the 88.8k mark.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: While I realize that all this 88.8k crap is most likely my OCD tendencies at play, sometimes it’s nice to pretend that a problem is universally shared instead of individually cursed… What’s the harm in one little delusion, right? *winks*

Burning

I was on fire yesterday!

I doled out 800 words here, cropped 500 words there.

Chapters were minced, diced, then reassembled with factory finish shine.

Orphaned plot points were kissed lovingly on the cheeks and shuffled off to new homes in new novels.

I was one smoking hot author whose residual steam somehow managed to power a new, long overdue “Tiptoeing Soul” travel post to be readied for release this weekend.

I sizzled, ladies and gents!

*pauses… rereads this post… cringes painfully at the horror of mixed metaphors*

Well, that is certainly embarrassing.

If this “on fire” thing happens again I’ll be sure to have my muse hose me down well before getting anywhere near this blog.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

I Am Not Hobbled

I refuse to think of myself as hobbled my mental illness… though most would argue that I am.

Let’s face it. My panic/anxiety/OCD/all-around-general-nuttiness issues have and most likely always will limit my movement through this life.

That’s a fact.

However, my messed up head is not a punishment. It is not God’s method to keep me from straying.

No, this has not been done to me.

It is me.

Why this makes a difference? Who knows.

Why I felt like I needed to share that silliness today? Again, who knows.

Now, enough philosophizing. I have a novel to finish.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: Frustration from not being able to work as long and as hard as I’d like on The Hushing Days final edits led to this weird post. Apologies to all… except those who needed to hear it.

Feed the Addiction

I peeked into my little black book last night. (Mind out of the sheets, please.)

Oh, I’m sure most writers have one. Instead of lost loves, squeezes and booty-calls, however, a fiction author’s little book is filled with story ideas, abandoned plot tangents and novel notions of varied ilk.

It is a dangerous book.

Plot bunnies are hungry little beasts. They’ll eat you out of time and suck you dry of creative juice. And that is precisely why I keep my little black book tucked well out of sight and more importantly out of reach.

But last night, with The Hushing Days now, finally, rushing to conclusion, I allowed myself the guilty pleasure of peeking.

Oh, it was a devilishly delicious buzz!

Remember to reward yourselves, authors. Give in to temptation from time to time. Feed the writing addiction to keep it alive.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Take Heed

You might think twice before stepping inside.

Really.

If I could, I’d turn tail and flee. Heck, a pack of hellhounds would run themselves ragged before they caught scent of me.

With 19 days to go until The Hushing Days deadline (yes, the very last deadline), it has been chaos around here.

Yesterday, the twenty Chapters revolted. They began tearing themselves apart, asexually reproducing into ill-fitting Chapter-ettes that belong nowhere in polite literary society.

So, fair warning is given.

Enter at your own peril.

Scenes with delusions of chapter-grandeur are vile critters with a propensity to gnaw on leg-bones, elbows and very last nerves.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Bald Ambition

A good, strong day of writing yesterday.

Got bunches and bunches done on The Hushing Days while managing to keep all but a few fretful handfuls of hair on my head.

Do bald authors sell better than hairy ones?

Hmm, research on this might prove comforting.

Twenty days to go, people.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: The explanation as to the twenty days deadline can be found in yesterday’s rather wordy but mildly enjoyable blog “Out, damn’d spot! Out, I say!”