When Contracts Trump Wanderlust

Time to board up the Colonial.

With a sigh sodden with lamentation, I set aside my “Six Brothers” Revolutionary War-era project today.

I pack up all its hastily scribbled notes on battles, prison ships and loyalist spies.

I tuck away my “speak-like-a-colonial” sources and force myself back to saying a simple “Hi” to my neighbors instead of “How now? What cheer?” (I’m sure they’ll all mourn that passing. *smirks*)

Men will go back to wearing pants and t-shirts instead of breeches, spatterdashes, underdrawers and waistcoats.

Women will put aside their petticoats, pattens and tuckers for jeans and flip-flops.

How sad.

But I will return to this most interesting and wonderfully strange world from time to time, whenever my contemporary romance novel allows.

And perhaps I will sneak out at night, when the moon is busy playing with the stars, and dash over to Wallabout Bay, Letterkenny, White Marsh and Rye. Surely there’d be no harm in such a quick, shadowed visit?

*sighs*

Leaving an unfinished writing project behind is a lot like packing up a U-Haul in the middle of the night and abandoning without word a neighborhood you had just begun to call home.

Of course, this could be just another example of a Chloe-thing, something unique to the eccentricities born of my mental issues.

But, somehow, I think not.

I believe most writers lament these times when contractual deadlines trump an author’s wanderlust into new genres or time periods.

Contracts can be such bittersweet beasts.

What a strange, strange world an author’s is.

*smiles*

Until tonight…

Chloe