Beyond

End of the month so let’s see what’s growing under the couch and behind the flour jar…

1.) Publishers of genre romance really need to have a bit more faith in their readers. A complicated plot is not beyond their audience’s minds.

2.) Copy editors please take note of this as well. Verbs beyond “was” do exist.

3.) “Mental illness in the head” and “mental illness in the house” are simply two sides of the same cursed coin.

4.) Two of my three MLB teams are heading to the playoffs! The chance of one knocking out the other is grotesque and growing. Maybe I should just bunk down with my Rays in last place and start the hibernation process a bit early this off season?...

5.) Yeah, right. Glutton for punishment here. Point this girl to the dungeon!

Until tomorrow…

Chloe 

The Daredevil Vow

I am surprisingly brave… especially for a girl caught in a chronic panic disorder for the last twenty-odd years. It’s true. One of the many oxymorons that confuse the heck out of bystanders, both near and far, of my most strange life.

So, in my attempt to embrace my inner scoundrel, I am making this vow to one and all right now…

Once every month, I will force myself to do something remarkably gutsy.

Ballsy.

Mischievously, fantastically brave.

Oh, yeah, baby. It will be a whole new world… at least for that one ballsy moment every four weeks.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Patient Scoundrel

Scoundrel-hood, despite my chronic invisibility to the outside world, is a surprisingly challenging proposition for me.

Particularly while staying at the parents.

Particularly while adventures with my 6 year old nephew are a daily joy.

Perhaps, I will put my scoundrel-y pursuits on the backburner for a bit? I think they’d fit snuggly beside my on-hold writing career.

Yep, let’s eye October for my moral debasement, shall we?

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: Apologies, but often it is sarcasm alone that sees me through the most frustrating of times (i.e. no a/c since freaking LABOR DAY!)  

Take Notice

May the world be put on notice…

Embracing the invisibility bestowed upon me by the a/c industry and the literary agents of the world, I have decided to turn scoundrel.

What this means exactly I have no idea, but it will be mouthwatering fun finding out.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Pauper of the Rings

The a/c saga continues.

Unlike Tolkien, however, the author of this saga has yet to include one hot hobbit or sexy elf in this tale.

I’m pulling my muse and I out of this production if Martin Freeman or Orlando Bloom doesn’t show at my door by sunset. Just saying.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Seeking

I tire of complaining, so will now stop.

I will fill the resultant silence with story starters, scribbled down on scraps of paper, hastily pecked out in blank documents.

If I ever do completely lose my mind, look for whatever is left of me there, under my pile of untold tales.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Neither Seed Nor Fly

A seed of discontent.

The fly in the ointment.

The pea that ruins all good princesses sleep.

When the pen is taken from my hand, it is very hard to see myself as anything more than these.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: Yes, I know these are only the mad whisperings of an insecure and chemically flawed mind, but I hear them just the same. And they wear on one.  

A Slow Souring

Expectations for this writing year are souring.

While the desire is still red hot and the ability to swing a mean word is still very much there, external factors keep playing the spoilers in the Great Expectations of 2016 game-plan.   

I am trying very hard not to take this constant crap personally but, well, you know.

Still keeping up the good fight though.

Always.

Always.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Found Magic

A quiver of arrows (dead daylily stems)…

A bow of weathered oak (found tree trimmings at the street)…

Hardy sustenance for a long journey (sippy cup of grape juice)…

A glorious treasure to trade in the home markets (an uncracked walnut to swap with Daddy, still at work)…

And a year long trek into uncharted lands (an hour’s walk in Grandma’s suburban neighborhood)…

Mix these together with your six year old nephew and a warm September dusk and voila!  A cure for Auntie’s silly blues wondrously appears.  

Magic.

Who knew?

Until tomorrow…

Chloe  

Enviable Position?

Spectator or player? When it comes to mental illness which is the harder role?

After years of being the on-the-field nut, my crazy butt is now taking up a front row seat in the stands. So, I should be in the enviable position of knowing the answer, right?

I don’t.

Both are crap.

Next stupid question.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Where the Cynic Grows

My cynicism grows.

Of many things.

It grows no longer as a toadstool, here today, gone tomorrow.

It grows now as a tree.

Isn’t that sad?

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: Never of faith. Never of purpose. Never of love. As long as my cynicism is of none of these things, I guess my muse and I can survive a few trees. 

Browbeaten

Stepping back and taking an objective look at my current work-in-progress, The Clockwise Heart, I’m really rather appalled by the shape of the thing.

Let’s equate the shape of a storyline’s rise and fall to that of an eyebrow, shall we?

Traditionally, the book wears a Well-Manicured, Carefully Plucked Arch of the Inquisitive. A slow rise to the climax to an exciting but measured fall.

Yeah, well… My book’s sporting Angry, Slightly Constipated Brow. Scrunched up, sharp waxing and waning of unrestrained action.

Could be a problem.

Anybody have a tweezer?

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Fate of the Tattered Manuscript

Take your pick:

A gnarled, armless cactus teetering on high heels, tattered manuscript pierced to pale greenish flesh by a thousand “Keep your bloody distance!” pokies.

Or…

A statuesque tower of badly chipped porcelain teacups teetering on their uneven saucers, tattered manuscript balanced on a pretty, flagrantly fragile pointed head.

Me at a romance writer’s convention.

Yep. Looking forward to the horror.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Shake Up

Time for a shakeup!

I think.

Perhaps.

We’ll see.

Anyhow, I’m at least now seriously considering attending a romance writer’s convention in the near future… The fact that those words just came out of my mouth is enough to shave a few years off my dwindling sanity.

Off to puke in the sink, now.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Squashing

Hear ye, hear ye! Let all rumors of my untimely demise and/or institutionalization be squashed. I am alive, relatively sane and present… despite my unseemly and rather inexcusable absence from this daily blog yesterday. 

In short…

The a/c still broken.

Temporary arrangements to guarantee survivability made.

Blogging will now recommence.

Writing career will continue to sputter along at irregular intervals for the next 10 to 15 days.

Complaints of heat will now cease and desist entirely.

Positive thinking re-engaged.

Apologies for the blogging hiccup given and hopefully received.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

State of Albatross

A balmy indoor temp of 86 degrees welcomed mom, muse and I home yesterday afternoon.

A balmy indoor temp of 81 degrees still hangs around our collective necks like an albatross this mid-morning. In other words, still waiting on the a/c tech, trying not to drip bone marrow on the carpet.

Someday, I will write again.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Melting

The sauna calls.

Yep, it’s time for me to return to my air condition-less abode. An army of technicians are en route. The muse is off to the groomer’s to get her sweatbox-do. And the hogtieing of my mother to “encourage” her coming along is nearly complete.

So, tomorrow will be the dreaded travel day. No blog. Wednesday’s edition will arrive contingent on my surviving the bloody hot.

Until Wednesday…

Chloe

Fault is Mine

I cannot write acquaintances.

Don’t give me that “can do” crap either. The acquaintances gene is missing from my authorial DNA. It’s science, ok?

Friends, enemies, lovers, exes, odd neighbors, endearingly whiney coworkers, sinister baristas I’ve got covered. Passing acquaintances with no color beyond their simple existence are way beyond my talents.

I think it’s important to recognize writerly faults. This is mine. Deal… or I’ll send my sinister barista your way.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe 

89 Words

Beauty is 89 words.

It matters little if these 89 precious words were written for a throwaway passage in a genre romance.

It matters none if these 89 miraculous words will most likely find their end on the wrong side of a trash can.

All that matters is that these 89 perfectly new, perfectly fresh words sprung from my imagination and onto paper yesterday.

The dry streak is over!… if only by 89 itty-bitty words.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Redirection of Funk

A funk. That’s what I’ve been in lately. No writing, no sleeping equals funk. Apologies.

While this funk looks to continue for at least a few days more, I am trying my darnedest to redirect all the negative energy into something, well, positive.

Right now, I’ve cleared Gloom and Doom and am just entering the outskirts of Blah. Hoping not to linger here too long. I’ll keep you updated.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Pricked

Alright, so no writing again yesterday. Hence, still picking the thorns out from another trip through crazy-ass dream land. Pricked to the point of polka-dotted-ness, I’m leaking sanity all over the place. What great wisdom I’m supposed to glean from all this, I haven’t a bloody clue.

Oh, well. Guess I’ll just soldier on and take copious notes. Some character somewhere must be able to use this crap.

Right?

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Sweatbox

Sleep… a quixotic place for the best of us. You tuck your brain away for the night and wish it well on its journeys to dawn.

Sleep, for me, after a day of zero creative writing… a sweatbox in an Amazonian jungle.

I shove my unruly mind in it at night and lock the door to its screams. Come morning, I drag its nonsensical carcass out, ignoring its mumblings about lemurs and calculus, and force the broken thing back to work building a bridge to nowhere.  

Um, yeah. I think I’ll be writing today.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe 

The Old Perspective Game

Well, look at me. The quintessential coward has once again ran home to the parents.

True, this had more to do with zero air conditioning in my Florida home than the panicky flailings in the old noggin, I’m still feeling like the Cowardly Lion in the old, technicolor production of life.

*sighs*

Oh, well. I guess I’ll take heart in not being kitted out as the flying monkey.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Plus One

An addendum, if you will, to this morning's post entitled "The 9 Wrought."

My air conditioning has just given up the ghost. Dear Hermine was simply too much for the old girl. She put her all into one final cooling before passing away this afternoon at 2:18.

May my a/c rest in peace... Meanwhile, unexpected travel day tomorrow (no blog) as the muse and I are fleeing this crazy crap and heading home to Mommy and Daddy.

Until Tuesday...

Chloe

The 9 Wrought

As promised (or was that threatened?) here’s a short (or stupidly long?) list of the joys (trials?) my decision to welcome Hurricane Hermine personally to Florida wrought…

1.) 11pm to 4:30am fear fest of wind, rain and tornado warnings.

2.) In lieu of the strangely absent lightning, the alien-like green flashes of transformers blowing lighting up the world outside my windows.

3.) The angry growl of electricity underground as it tried to break its way into my darkened house. (Who knew underground power lines could be such amazingly creepy things?)

4.) A 5am breakfast of peanut butter crackers by candlelight.

5.) The ridiculous glee of opening my backdoor and finding the lizard world had weathered the storm.

6.) 18 hours of no power on a sunny, 92 degree day-after.

7.) The hum of distant generators and the feverish grr of chainsaws filling the stagnant afternoon air.

8.) Losing my entire refrigerator and ¾ of my freezer to Hermine and her wanton ways.

9.) But most importantly, realizing how darn lucky the muse and I were to be able to complain about items 1 through 8.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Answer

I stayed.

Yes, the furry, four-legged muse and I personally welcomed Hurricane Hermine and her eye wall to Tallahassee Thursday night.

The decision was poor.

Details tomorrow once the brain fully emerges from its catatonic state.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Question

Should I stay or should I go? That is the question. Right now, I’ve got no idea. I’m under a Hurricane Warning this morning. So, excuse the non-blog blog. And excuse the possible no-blog at all tomorrow or Saturday due to the weather or my fleeing to the parents’.

Everybody stay safe now.

Until tomorrow or whenever…

Chloe