My Affair

I enjoyed a brief affair with the poet William Blake yesterday afternoon.

Yes, the man is dead (long dead, as in centuries in the ground kind of dead).

No, I was not experiencing a disturbing blip on my sanity meter nor was I dabbling in séance-ology.

What I was doing, however, might surprise you.

Care to guess?

*nibbles on a handful of glazed doughnut holes as the guesses bounce off the blog auditorium’s walls*

*smirks smugly when not a single answer comes close to the truth*

I, ladies and gentlemen, was mining for a proper title for the Six Brothers project!

*audience rolls eyes and sighs in grumbling disappointment*

Ok. Admittedly, only me, my mom and a certain four-legged, furry muse probably find this news exciting, but I share it nonetheless.

An inquiring mind or two might wonder if I found that proper title?

That inquiring mind will be happy to hear my “Oh, yes!”

But that inquiring mind will have to wait a bit to hear the long-winded answer. I’ve got to live with it a couple of days to make sure it fits and I’m happy with it.

*that lone inquiring mind rolls eyes and sighs in grumbling disappointment*

Well, now that I’ve disappointed the entire world, I will leave you to your Halloween.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Issues of Gill

Feeling a bit gangly this morning.

Awkward.

Uncomfortable in my odd-shaped gills.

Being the new fish in the mainstream romance market is frankly a little daunting.

I’m feeling tiny.

Laughable.

I’m the little, wiggly thing that the big fish point at and ask “What the crap is that?”

While this is most likely only a momentary “Oh, f**k. What am I doing?” moment, it is one I thought it only honest to address. (That pesky “full disclosure” thing I promised way back at the beginning of this daily blog adventure in January keeps coming back to bite me in the butt, it seems.)

Changing genres, changing home waters, is a big, scary move. Even for us somewhat well-established and (dare I say?) respected authors in small, highly-colorful, and wonderfully exotic ponds, the transition to an entirely different ecosystem is difficult, to say the very, very least.

Is it worth it?

I don’t know yet. Ask me after I sell my first mainstream novel.

Is it necessary?

Yes. If financial considerations are a consideration at all, then the answer is “Yep. Absolutely.”

Unfortunately, all the “Yep”s and “Absolutely”s don’t make my gills feel any less inadequate today.

Geez. Full disclosure is not easy on the fins.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

A Dash of the Arcane

A day of personal upheaval in the family precluded a lot of writing yesterday. (Sometimes being “self-employed” and “freelance” isn’t such a bad thing after all. I have yet to lay myself off. Although my mind has locked me out of the building a time or two, but we won’t be discussing that. *smirks*)

Anyhow, I did manage to get another 100 words eked out. I don’t know whether I should be expecting applause for this “monumental” task or a general wince from mankind at my measly effort?

My shimmying method of working through the Colonial dictionary I fear has about run its course. While I will be constantly referencing the collection of era-appropriate words and phrases, I will be using them simply as flavor.

I want the Six Brothers to be easy to read and follow. Using arcane language that needs footnotes every other sentence does not equal a smooth, enjoyable, romantic read.

Or at least that’s the theory I’m running with.

Please keep your fingers crossed that said-theory isn’t a dud.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Blind Tragedian

I find writing tragedy remarkably easy.

What that says about me, my psyche and the bent of my imagination, I choose to ignore. (My psychiatrist has enough on his hands already.)

Yesterday, a day of minimal writing time thanks to an air conditioner in its death throes, I began chipping away at the tragedy-ridden subplot at the heart of the Six Brothers.

Like I said, it was easy.

Rather ghoulish of me, I fear.

If writing was a waltz, the tearjerker and I would be flawless dance partners.

All the little details that wring heartbreaking sorrow from a reader fly off my fingertips with troublesome ease.

I could write one heck of a “Love Story”-esque novel… If I really wanted to… which I don’t.

I abhor reading tearjerkers. My emotions are tattered enough with my every day, screwed up life that I really don’t need to send the old heart-strings through a paper shredder just for jollies.

Oh well. I guess I don’t really have to read what I write.

The blind tragedian, that’s me.

Hurrah.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Pick. Grab. Surprise!

I’m learning the most interesting things.

As I continue on with my “chimney-shimmying” method of writing (chronicled in yesterday’s blog), surprising tidbits of my character’s personalities and physical traits have been coming to light.

For instance…

Did you know that Yates (second oldest of the Six Brothers) is very tall? I didn’t. Not until my “close eyes and grab” stratagem of attacking the Colonial dictionary spit out “Long Shanks” as a long-legged person…

Which resulted in a whole little teasing dialogue between Yates and his significant other, Titilayo…

Which resulted in me learning that Titilayo is the kind of woman not afraid to take her love interest on in a verbal sparring match, despite their woefully unequal histories…

Which resulted in me falling kind of love with the freed slave, Titilayo, and upping my excitement about working with the remarkably strong woman in the coming months…

Which results in me coming across as a completely loony author with an active imagination bordering on the absurd.

Oh well, as they say, the truth will out.

*winks*

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Chimney-Shimmy

If you can’t bully your way in the front door and you can’t sweet talk your way into the back, it is perfectly acceptable to shimmy down the chimney.

Please note that this sound advice is only suitable for a writer trying to finagle her way into a new story. In any and all other circumstances, this strategy would most rightfully result in a charge of stalking and/or breaking and entering. This would be bad. Very bad.

Now, with that disclaimer made, I’d like to spend the rest of this post bragging about my chimney-shimmying.

As I’ve noted in the previous couple of blogs, I’ve had trouble getting into the late Colonial dialogue required for my Six Brothers project.

Yesterday, after several hours of extremely slow, plodding-through-the-proverbial-mud writing, I ended up with the first 120 words of my 100K novel done. Consider those numbers for a moment.

This is bad. Very bad.

So, I started shimmying. Madly.

I went to my “Colonial” dictionary (thousands of terms used in the time period by “normal folk”) and started randomly picking out words or phrases. I would then come up with a sentence of dialogue, including the chosen word, for somewhere in the mammoth outline. I would then start sculpting out a scene around these token sentences.

And voila! I had wordage.

Weird? Yep.

Successful? Yep.

And that’s my chimney-shimmy, ladies and gents. Take it or leave it. I offer it only as an option for a locked-out writer.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Silent Dialogue

Stumbled into a bit of quicksand yesterday.

Flailed around ineffectually for a few hours.

Put myself to bed shortly thereafter feeling a complete failure.

And that was my Friday. How was yours?

*chuckles sadly*

Sarcasm aside, my writing efforts yesterday sucked.

I realized, to my abject and total horror, that I can’t write late colonial dialogue to save my life. This could be a small problem to a girl starting on a 100K word Revolutionary War-era romance.

Hence the quicksand-flailing hours.

Years of being Panic’s whore, however, have made me either remarkably thick-skinned or remarkably foolhardy when it comes to these “little” stumbling blocks. (After all, how important is dialogue really? *smirks*)

After a quick but fervent visit with Samuel Richardson’s “Pamela” and Fanny Burney’s “Evelina” (two wonderful 18^th century sources for Colonial manner of speaking), I plan to soldier on, right back into said-quicksand with a hardy laugh and a devil-may-care attitude…

So, this could get really ugly.

Or this could get really, really good.

We’ll see.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

P.S. Monarch butterflies are migrating through north Florida this week. I took this picture yesterday.

Hard Hat Days

“Work in progress.”

In your mind, please place this admonition over all the blogs detailing my work on the Six Brothers project.

For instance, everything I professed in yesterday’s post about voice and style and “needless daisies” should be disregarded as hogwash.

I was wrong.

Oh, it was an honest mistake. I believed everything I was spouting and was fully prepared to embark on the short, dramatic, punchy sentences…

But, then, I dared to have a peek at some of today’s bestselling historical romance authors and found that needless daisies were in fact very much in season.

Not groves and groves of them, but they were indeed spattered about quite liberally.

After squeaking in utter glee, I spent the rest of the work day defining all sorts of wonderfully exacting details for my characters.

It was delightful.

But it also meant I needed to hammer up the “Work in Progress” sign first thing this morning.

That done and with apologies made and hopefully accepted, I leave you to your Friday.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Needless Daisies

Fully recovered from the other night’s psychiatric escapades (see yesterday’s truly pathetic blog for the truly pathetic details), I am ready to actually put word to paper today on the Six Brothers.

*a spattering of half-hearted applause echoes through the blogging auditorium*

Alright, I’m going to be needing a little more than that, folks. A big, messy belly-flop into the mainstream deserves at least one spirited “Yahoo!”

*a single, fur-faced sneeze from a foot off the carpet is the lone reply*

Fine. At least my four-legged muse is making an effort. I’ll take whatever I can get.

*sighs dramatically around a poorly hidden smile*

What I am concerned about is what kind of voice I’m going to use with a late Colonial/Revolutionary War-era romance?

With 100K words as my goal, I’m terribly tempted to get verbose, flowery even. Describe every detail down to the utterly ridiculous.

I could do it, too.  

I could do it good. Real good.

But I won’t.

I’m aiming more for short, dramatic sentences that pack a clean and dramatic punch.

I’ve got a lot of ground to cover in the Six Brothers, so drowning in needless daisies and extraneous rose-hips really isn’t the way to go.

At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

Of course, the other half of myself quite reasonably muses, “Is there really such a thing as a needless daisy?”

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

 

 

Cowardice, Well-Deserved

I hesitate to even write this… (*chuckles sadly* Cowardice personified right there, folks. Jeez, I’m a wimp.)

Anyhow, I had a panic attack last night.

A bad one.

Full-blown.

My stomach even joined in for three hours of jolly good fun in and out of the bathroom.

It was simply terrible.

And exactly like the ones I used to have twenty years ago…

Exactly like the ones twenty years ago that crippled me and locked me in my room for ungodly stretches of time (years, people.)

I haven’t had one of these in probably nine years, the last time I had to up my medication to control the damned things.

Thankfully, there was a different reason for this setback. A stupid reason. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.

I forgot to take my medicine yesterday morning… for the first time in 18 years.

Needless to say that won’t happen again.

But what really has freaked me out is the stark realization that even after all these years of relatively panic-maintained living, I am still so, so close to losing myself to the illness again.

One missed handful of pills and I’m back to that horrible place that scarred me so terribly.

So, yes. I hesitated even to write this.

Admitting to the world that you are still one sick puppy is daunting and a little stomach-turning.

It’s scary.

But it’s cowardice well-deserved.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe (survivor)

 

 

Polaroid Dreams

Jamaica Pass, Brooklyn, New York.

August 26, 1776.

That’s where the Six Brothers begins.

That’s where I’m trying to go.

Anybody got a time machine I can borrow?

I wouldn’t need to stop and visit.  Just a little flyby so I can snap a few pictures of the lay of the land, and I’d be good.

With all the research I’ve done these last six months on the late colonial period, I’m pretty ok with the customs, dress, talk and overall flavor of the era. (Note the awe-inspiring confidence held in that “pretty ok” word choice.)

However, a bygone landscape when Polaroid snapshots were few and far between is a little trickier to reimagine.

So, I’ve been scouring over old maps and drawings of the area, reading eye witness accounts to events, trying to capture something I can sink my imagination’s teeth into.

Little by little, bit by tee-tiny bit, it is working.

But I’m still thumbing for a ride on a kitted out Delorean.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

 

 

The Messy Particulars

Pardon the clinking and clanking.

The occasional “Crash!” and “Oh, damnation!” should also be ignored.

Nothing alarming going on here. I’m just rooting around in the china cabinet, trying to dig out a table setting for twelve.

With the Six Brothers project moving in for an extended stay (shooting for 100K words here), I’m struggling to make room for twelve major players taking up residence in my head.

Six brothers. Six significant others. All of varying heft in the storyline I have successfully pitched to my literary agent…. That’s a couple of minivans worth of personalities. And when a girl is used to driving a sports car for two, with an occasional antagonist crowded into the backseat, the change is daunting to say the least.

So, today is “Let’s move your asses in and I’ll figure out all the messy particulars later” day.

Messy particulars include how I’m going to feed these people.

I just hope nobody minds sharing forks.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

 

 

Letting the Engine Idle

Decompressing.

That’s me.

Quiver behind me. The Six Brothers project ahead. I’m taking a day to just relax.

Isn’t that very adult of me?

Yep, professional here.

*clock ticks slowly by as everybody waits for the…*

But…

I’m just itching to jump into the Six Brothers, anxious as all heck to jump into the mainstream romance waters and see what this crazy girl can do!

*sighs, as the whole “adult” and “professional” things swirl noisily down the drain*

I guess my engine doesn’t idle well.

Foolhardy but excited.

That’s me.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Rage of the Bees

My normally, gently buzzing beehive of nerves (the “gently” part thanks to a fist-load of Prozac every morning) is currently nearing the angry-mob-with-pickaxes stage.

SIDE NOTE: Bees with pickaxes are always bad.

Why has the buzzing turned to shouts of rage, you might ask?

*admits, while hiding face in hands…*

The Halloween party for my 4 yr. old nephew is today.

I’m hosting.

I’m freaking.

Occasionally I forget how screwed up the old brain-wires are.  Not today.

So, I’m using my daily blog this morning to get all my utter, bang-head-against-the-wall frustration with my stupid self out. Hopefully, I can then concentrate on giving my favorite little guy in all the universe a Halloween party he will never forget!

Hopefully.

If the hatchet-toting bees will let me.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

 

 

Choosing the Sun

For the very first time in the whole of 2014, I am free!

I have completed my contract with Ravenous Romance, have no other deadlines awaiting me and am essentially a free agent author with a fantastic literary agent as my wingman.

Wow!!

Of course, cast in a slightly darker light, I am now unemployed with no assurance whatsoever that I will ever be published again.

Bummer.

Big, stinky bummer with toe fungus, actually.

But, I am choosing to dance in the bright, bright sunshine of “Wow!” instead of cowering in the shadows with “Bummer.”

A foolish strategy, some will say.

A brilliant stratagem, my four-legged muse and I maintain.

And with this newly found freedom, my dog and I have set our sights on the mainstream, where the only real (i.e. the “Look! I can afford toe polish without skipping two meals!”) money is.

It’s a shame that a writer can’t survive in the smaller streams of genre fiction. I’ve put 5 years and 17 novels into the m/m romance genre and now I’ve got to walk away from it all just so my career can keep growing.

Now that, ladies and gents, is the true “Bummer” of this picture.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

 

 

Let's Get It On

With my normal post-novel hangover no doubt lurking in the shadows somewhere real, real close, I am a little hesitant to revel too much in my Quiver-ing achievement.

(Get it? Quiver-ing and the book’s name was Quiver?... yes, pretty pathetic, I’ll admit. Any and all good stuff, I’m afraid, got squeezed out yesterday into the book. Apologies.)

Anyhow, as you can tell, I’m working at about a 14 percent clip this morning. 

At least I am here and it is still morning. Got to give me some credit there, right?

(Last night’s late, late post was a little weird. I felt like I should have had Kenny G playing in the background and the whole blog cast in “Let’s Get It On” mood lighting. *shudders*)

I’ve still got to finish up the sell copy this morning and get the cover design form into the publishing house, but after that I am putting to bed both Samuel and Brevyn and leaving them to their own wanton desires for a bit.

The American Revolution and mainstream historic romance calls!

And I am so excited to answer that it’s really, really silly… as evidenced by the really, really silly grin currently plastered to my face.

Alright, off to your day! I’ve got a hangover to host.

Have a marvelous Thursday, my friends.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

 

 

10pm and All is Done

Quiver is done and is off to the publishing house.

Daily blog is finally written (albeit at 10:00pm at night, and is nothing but three short little sentences, nevertheless… *lol*).

And Chloe is brain dead.

Somebody applaud or something, please.

*grins loopily*

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

I Plod

Plodding through Quiver like a draft horse through Alabama mud, I come to you this morning just a wee bit frazzled.

Frizzed.

Fried.

Pleasantly wired.  Like an astronaut catapulting toward a big, bad, black hole (resigned to her messy fate and now just enjoying the mother of all rollercoaster rides).

Two more days to go and I’ve got a ton of detailing to do. Thankfully, all the scenes are there, just in various stages of “mostly finished.”

Usually at this point, there’s that one crucial, story-turns-on-this-one-moment scene left to be tackled. Not this time. (Whether this is good or bad, we’ll see.)

So far, my family is surviving me. But it’s early days yet.

Keep your fingers crossed and I’ll keep that draft horse plodding along.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Road Rash

Not dead.

That would be me I speak of.

*a grainy tape of thunderous applause plays*

Despite the inexcusable lateness of this blog, I am still alive and kicking. You, kind folks, are simply paying for a most likely foolish attempt at bravery on my part.

Yesterday, despite my 17^th novel’s deadline being Wednesday, I decided to take the Chloe show on the road. Me and the faithful pup are visiting family for a week.

*cries of “Stupid!” and “You really are nuts, lady!” erupt from the crowd*

Yeah, well, guilty as charged.

So, bottom line is I’m going to try to finish up Quiver in the company of loving family… family that will probably end up hating me by the time these 3 days of utter, sheer, ugly lunacy is over and the book is packaged off to the publishing house.

Bravery in my world is idiocy in everyone else’s.

Wish my family luck.

Lots of it.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Rock

A few days ago I told you how difficult it was playing the tortoise instead of the hare on the final sprint to Quiver’s (my 17^th novel’s) finish.

Well, extreme measures have had to be taken to retain my turtlehood…

Like plunking a big, old, fat rock on my shell.

Yessiree, bob.

Yesterday, after 150 words of detailing work on the novel, all Quiver business was shut down for the rest of the day. I knew if I wrote one more word I wouldn’t stop until I was being given oxygen on the other side of that finish line.

It was clear that pinning myself down to a designated spot for the remainder of the afternoon was obviously necessary. So, I focused all my OCD tendencies on…

Making spiders.

Spider legs, to be exact. 

(Made the bodies the other day.)

I’m talking paper Halloween spiders here, folks. I haven’t gone Dr. Frankenstein on you quite yet, so please relax.

I’m throwing my 4 year old nephew a Halloween party next Saturday and the theme this year is, you guessed it, spiders.

Happy spiders.

Friendly spiders.

Gaily attired arachnids suitable for G-rated audiences…

That, ladies and gentlemen, was the big, old, fat rock on my shell.

Now, just try to tell me my life isn’t ridiculous.

Go ahead. I dare you.

*shakes head and laughs*

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Clever Tickle

Being unexpectedly clever always tickles me.

This particularly instance happened yesterday and I’m still childishly giggling over it.

(Yes. It’s going to be one of “those” blogs in which I preen like a heavily medicated peacock. Forgive me. This colorful bout of self-confidence won’t last long, I sadly assure you.)

So, I was working on the final scene of Quiver yesterday. Tying up loose ends, wrapping all subplots up in a pretty bow, when the most deliciously clever idea occurred to me.

*blushes soundly*

Of course, it was not as delicate as that. (If you’ve learned little else from 10 months of this daily blog, you’ve surely learned that Chloe does not do delicate.)

This clever idea of mine didn’t tap me on the shoulder and say “Well, hello there.”

Nope.

This clever idea took me out at the knees and walloped me frightfully about the head with a goose feather pillow. (SIDE NOTE: My clever ideas always come with goose feathers. Maybe that’s why they tickle me so? *smirks cleverly*)

Anyhow, it was just a really great idea.

A perfect ending to a mystery romance… or so the heavily medicated peacock tells me.

*smiles*

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Sketching of Voice

The cantor, the clip, the genius-like tilt to his every sentence, I’m going to miss these most of all when Quiver comes to an end.

The “he” I’m referring to is the novel’s main character, Brevyn Steed.

Of course, it matters little his name, his backstory, his sexuality. This is about the way a man talks.

When creating a character, particularly one that runs through a series of novels, I think it’s absolutely crucial to find that person’s voice and latch on to it as if you’re writing life depended on it (which it does, I suppose, in some macabre, fatalistic manner.)

An identifiable cadence, a familiar meter to a character’s speech offers the audience something to grab onto themselves, especially as they traverse a book series.

I always try to make each player’s voice unique. For instance:

1.) The way they deliver a sentence… Do they start and stop with periods and full breaks after every little thought? Or does their thinking run together with commas only providing the needed breaths?

2.) Their word choice... Are they a walking thesaurus? Are they highly educated and enjoy showing off their mastery of language? Or do they have a limited vocabulary, offering more bang for their word buck? Do they curse? If so, how much and how far are they willing to go?

Oh, I’m sure there are a dozen other examples, but I think you get the picture.

The point is, and it is a rather selfish one today, I will miss writing Brevyn Steed’s voice. Rarely have I found a character that I simply harmonize with so well.

Ok, here ends today lecture. Back to the normal nonsense next time. *smiles*

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Begrudging Tortoise

I’ve reached a point in writing Quiver that is very rare.

*pauses, reconsiders*

Well, at least for me, it’s rare. For the rest of the authoring world it might be quite familiar. I am a rather odd bird in most things so finding another kink in the great garden hose of my leaking sanity would hardly be a surprise…

*dog strolls across lap, gives a “Get on with it!” glare and grumpily continues on her way*

So the point I’ve reached is this:

I can see the finish line.

I can even feel that glorious ribbon breaking against my chest as I cross the finish line.

This is all fine and dandy and even vaguely familiar. (‘Tis true that I occasionally finish a novel coherent and not riding a tsunami of panic that could easily wipe out Japan.)

However, it is EXTREMELY rare that I’m having to fight back the urge to sprint to that finish line.

Even when things are well in hand, I’m usually so pooped from the whole weeks of marathon writing that the thought of putting on a burst of speed at the end would be laughable and possibly grounds for committal.

But this time, with six days left until the deadline and only 4K words left to write, it’s taking everything inside of me not to throw all caution to the wind and fly to that end.

Yep, keeping that tortoise shell on is really hard when slipping on that cute little bunny tale would be so much fun!

But the slow and steady tortoise always wins the race, right?

Right.

But, jeeze that cottontail is really, really cute.

*chuckles*

Until tomorrow…

Chloe, the begrudging tortoise

The Lost 150

Where do I file a complaint with Father Time?

Is there a comment box I’m not aware of?

Or a customer service department with a perky staff trained to annoy?

*waits, listening patiently for a response*

From the roaring nothing I’m hearing out there from my blogging peeps, I assume the answer is a general “No. Cowboy it up, sister.”

Well, crap. That’s what I was afraid of.

Yesterday, in my attempt to up the blogging ante up a notch, I joined Instagram.

Lovely site, truly.

Don’t have a problem with it, at all.

Could be fun and seems easy enough to do…

Now.

After 150 minutes of my oh-so precious life was wasted yesterday trying to figure out what the freak to do and how to do it.

Far from being a complaint about Instagram, this is simply a scathing indictment on myself and the tech-idiocy that comes so naturally to me.

Oh, I will get whatever it is done given time, evidenced by this blog miraculously getting published each and every day on a handful of completely different sites. (I still can’t believe I figured all that out. So, I lost a few weeks doing so. Who really needs a January anyhow? *smirks*)

Bottom line is this: While this blog is now up on Instagram, my life is now 150 minutes shorter.

*sighs*

Maybe Father Time’s got a manager I can talk to or something?

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

P.S. Here’s my Instagram account. If you want a few chuckles, check it out. This should be hilarious.

http://instagram.com/authorchloestowe

Raiding Sicily

Remember April.

Go ahead. I’ll wait.

*pauses as calendars are flipped back, a whole summer wiped away and fresh slates are dealt in baseball*

Way back then, if you’ll recall, I was busy working on a storyline for a short story I simply called “Sicily.”

It was to be submitted to Dreamspinner and Harlequin’s Carina Press. Well, the Six Brothers project (Revolutionary War era mainstream romance which I will begin writing October 16, to the hearty applause of my literary agent, I might add. *grins*) happened and “Sicily” was relegated to the far back burner.

Well, now that my writing career is about to turn solely mainstream (i.e. the traditional f/m romance), all the work I had done on “Sicily” I feared was lost.

Wrong.

Yesterday, as I continued the final push on Quiver (only 7k to go, by the way), I found myself raiding “Sicily” and absconding rather giddily with its main plot point!

Sheepishly I admit, it was a tee-tiny bit glorious.

As all writers have experienced, so often when half-baked projects are forced to be left behind all that work is abandoned and sadly lost.

Not this time.

*smiles, still giddy*

Yes, it was a bit glorious, indeed.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe