The Bolognese Gambit

Like a good Bolognese sauce, I am letting the Six Brothers stew on the back burner, allowing the flavors to blend and bloom.

*pauses, letting the crap settle*

Ok, so that opening line was little more than imaginatively presented bull, but I believe some credit should be given for the effort.

These hectic days of happy familial obligations, when any writing beyond this blog has been impossible, are lying heavy on my mind. Coming up with some literal rationale for my lack of craft-plying is quickly becoming a necessity.

The Bolognese Sauce Excuse was today’s winner… and wasn’t it grand?

Tomorrow, I hope to return to writing. This blog will then return to something at least pretending to be useful, educational and insightful.

So, let’s all keep our fingers crossed that on this last day of backburner stewing, nothing too important will burn, scald, crisp or turn.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Clothesline Mercy

Another day has passed with the writing gods shaking their fingers in my face and declaring haughtily, “No writing for you.”

Unfortunately, even us literary giants must yield to the foibles of these titans. And you, dear followers, must suffer the consequences of a non-writing Chloe. Sorry.

You will be glad to know that I have not contemplated the offing of another brother. Yesterday’s admission of considering knocking poor Leo off has left me with enough guilt to see me through the weekend. Even I can only handle so much.

For now the Six Brothers will indeed stay the six brothers… until the pencil returns to the hand and the writing gods once again smile down upon dear me. Hopefully, today.

Perhaps a “Leo Lives!” t-shirt might see you through the interim and might sway the poor boy’s ultimate reckoning… FYI: I take a size M. (After all, I’m rooting for the lad myself.)

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Affirmation & Scandal

Due to the holiday hub-bub even we hermit-like creatures endure at this time of the year, I have been unable to write these last few days. Therefore, the Six Brothers have laid dormant, resting in peace my more morbid sense of humor would claim.

This forced break from working on my 100k mainstream monstrosity has brought two things to light. One, simply a confirmation of something I already knew. The second, a scandalous idea.

My brain’s need for exhaustive writing every day has been emphasized yet again. My dreams (i.e. nightmares) tend to get very cinematic and sprawling when my mind hasn’t been run ragged the hours before. A little John Ford is fine if the dream is good, but when the dream’s bad… well, you get the picture.

The scandalous idea, I wonder if I should even mention here, is this…

I’m considering rubbing out a brother.

(One of my Six Brothers, as in my writing project, as in fiction, as in no police involvement necessary.)

The youngest of my brood is really extraneous to the plot and by eliminating him and his significant other a lot of wiggle room could be made for my brand of long-winded writing. Whether this added space would be a good idea or bad, I have no idea. I’m having to think on it (a potentially scary proposition, indeed.)

I’ll keep you updated.

Now, back to the hub-bub, everybody!

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Operatic Looting

As a writer, I’m always looking at other artistic pursuits to see what I can learn.  Applying other theories to literature has fascinated me for years, and whenever I find myself in a rough writing patch I invariably turn to a little looting.

My sudden interest in opera is an example of such smash and grab tactics.

Opera is an especially rich field in which to plunder because it is an art form remarkably close to literature.

The whole idea of opera is to integrate the spoken dramatic word with song, spectacle and orchestra.  An opera should be an experience of sight, sound and mind.

A novel is little different, except its sight and sound must be provided through the play of words the author chooses.

So, as I continue my journey into the art of opera, I will keep a notepad and pencil nearby, always prepared to loot me some theory.

It may sound foolish, but give it a shot and see what you find.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Mad Authorian Mania

Belly to the ground, Sherlockian magnifying glass in hand, I am primed and ready to detect me some authorian positives from my Six Brothers writing experience so far. (SIDE NOTE:  I seriously doubt authorian is even a word, but I offer it to you as spice for today’s blog. Consider it my nod to Thanksgiving.)

Alrighty-then, let’s see what positives I’ve scrounged up from my struggles with my Revolutionary War-era, mainstream-loving pals…

1.) I’ve learned if absolutely, positively necessary I can outline a novel down to an inch of its authorian life. (Consider it cinnamon and enjoy.)

2.) I’ve learned that a 100k novel can squeeze a 50k dramatist nearly to authorian death. (I’d like a physicist to please explain the science behind this positive.)

3.) I’ve learned that a list of positives from the Six Brothers struggles is a very short list, indeed.

There. I’ve tried to be thankful on this Thanksgiving holiday week. May I now be excused from the Ungrateful Whiner table and go watch some football?

SIDE NOTE: I don’t like Thanksgiving. Can you tell? *lol* My blessings are countless, something I try very hard to appreciate every day. I get a little saucy when told to do something I’m already putting so much effort in doing every freaking day… And while I realize this makes no sense whatsoever, there it is. Consider it a slice of Mad Authorian Mania and be grateful. *smirks*

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Blame Mozart

Again, I am forced to offer apologies.

Again, the drive to Montgomery called me and my pup.

Again, my burgeoning appreciation for opera was fed as I traversed southern Alabama. This time, Mozart’s Idomeneo took the lead.

So, I properly lay the blame for my tardiness at the King of Crete’s feet. (Try saying that 3 times really fast.)

Tomorrow, this blog will return to its normal nonsense all decked out in its writerly wisdom bling.

Sorry for any inconvenience my wanderlust has caused.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe in her hair shirt

Outlaw Toil

Well, the “I’m not working” bit from yesterday’s post finally went into effect after two hours of, well, work.

Yeah, I suck at taking a day off.

Unfortunately, my two hours of outlaw toil resulted in only a single sentence of useable writing.

A single sentence that will only be used if I choose a certain title for the Six Brothers project.

A single sentence which could very well be the opening line of the novel, if I go with that certain title…

Of course, all of this still equals a work speed of one sentence per two hours of writing.

Yeah, I apparently suck at work speed too.

Maybe today will be a breakthrough day of writing?

Maybe the romance will flow from my fingers like city water from a faucet?...

Yeah, sucking at the Monday morning pom-pom crap is another highlight of the old resume.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Gordian Knot & I

Recognizing that shoulder muscles turning to rot and flaking off my bones like dandruff is a bad proposition all around, I have decided to back-off of the Six Brothers project for today and take a much needed breather.

Battling the creeping uncertainty of writing a mammoth novel (in a genre I’ve only dabbled in with novellas before, I kindly remind you) has quickly resulted in a Gordian knot of stress taking up residence in my shoulder. Short of taking dear Alexander the Great’s lead of taking up a sword and solving the problem with a well-placed hack, I have no idea how to approach this rather painful dilemma other than to retreat for a bit and let all muscular parties rest.

“Cop out!” some might claim.

“Coward!” a few will even call.

“Survivor!” I retort.

Yeah, I know. A little stress in the shoulders is hardly the big deal I’m making it out to be. But me taking a day off is a HUGE deal with a psyche as screwed up as mine. So blowing the whole shoulder-stress thing out of proportion is my way of justifying my complete and utter failure as a writer today.

Living in my head is really weird sometimes.

Be glad you only visit.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

When to Let the Specter In

I’m hungry to write. There is no doubt about that. But sinking my teeth into the Six Brothers project is proving difficult and I think I’ve finally figured out why…

I don’t know if I’m doing it right.

Yes. It’s simple, childish, and probably a sign of a cowardly soul. But there it is.

After writing and selling lots and lots of novels in the m/m romance genre, I had gained a certain amount of confidence that I knew what I was doing and that I was doing it right.

I’ve always been a creature who appreciated a pat on the head every once in a while. Just a little assurance of “Hey buddy, nice going. Keep it up.” 

Selling a novel every three to four months is a remarkably fine pat on the head.

Insecurities have rushed in in the absence of such gestures.

Frank (my long-missing specter of imminent failure) has begun to rattle my front door again. And as a result, I’m closing the blinds, turning off the lights and hiding.

Apparently, I can’t write in the dark.

So, do I keep cowering behind the sofa, pecking out a sentence here and there? Or do I risk throwing back the curtains and letting light and Frank back inside?

The answer is unfortunately clear…

Time to clear off the end of the couch and whip up some crumpets.

Frank is back.

God help us all.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Shackled to the Wandering Path

In a furthering of yesterday’s post in which I complained about “lack of wiggle room” in my first, humongous, mainstream romance project, I’d like to explain my grief a little more clearly.

The way in which I write is this…

Say I’m working on the classic tale of Jack, Jill and the hill that broke his crown. In my mind, I divide the story into four parts (this is heady stuff, so please take notes):

1.) “Jack and Jill go up the hill”…. Characters and setting are introduced. The rhythm of the writing style is struck. Character banter.

2.) “To fetch a pail of water”… Motivations of the characters, the upward sway of the storyline arc, and a wee touch of action come in here.

3.) “Jack fell down and broke his crown”… The climactic scene with high action and “hit ‘em in the gut” drama.

4.) “And Jill came tumbling after.”… The fallout. Everything is tied together for the reader and the audience is left feeling fully satisfied but breathless for more.

Ok, so I hop out of bed each morning, write this blog, feed my face and the dog’s, and decide what I’m feeling that day.

Am I in the mood to write banter?...  Off to Part 1, I go.

Perhaps I’m feeling rather plotty and full of myself?... Action scenes always intimidate me so while I’m feeling heady, I head to Part 3.

Perhaps I’m feeling rather plotty but insecure?... Part 2, where I will no doubt spend the majority of my time.

Or maybe the day calls for playing the tragedian?... Hello, Part 4!

This is all well and dandy (if a bit weird) when writing a 50k Jack and, well, Jack story. (17 novels in m/m romance, remember.)

But, add another three major storylines that must be intricately intermixed and triple the main character count and Chloe’s got a problem.

With everything so laid out, I have no wiggle room to take a certain scene and run with it, just to see what wondrous places it can go.

I know exactly where it has to go, venturing off the well-laid out path is a no-no if I ever want to get this done.

As you can see from the bloated size of this post, I can ramble and sometimes ramble quite effectively.

All rambling in the Six Brothers project has already been done in the crafting of the plot and the detailed lay out of the scenes. There’s no room for blatant exploration, seeing which way the wind will blow your writing that day. I’m shackled to the path. See what I’m saying?

*sighs*

Probably not, but I say it just the same. Maybe someone out there can scrape a little wisdom out of this.

I hope so.

If not, I apologize for the ramble.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Ill-Fitted Glass Slipper

Working on the assumption that the move from the m/m genre to mainstream romance is indeed fated (as I’ve really, really got to believe or I’m about to give “panicked hysteria” a test drive), I have come to the following conclusion…

Glass slippers are sometimes a little tight around the toes.

Despite what Disney tells you, some adjustment time is needed for learning to wear glass on your feet.

For instance, in my case, there’s some pinching going on.

Nothing serious. Nothing that has me seriously contemplating shattering the dang thing against the nearest brick wall and reverting back to flip-flops. No, just a little “Ouch!” here and there.

Working within the confines of a tremendously detailed outline that has to be followed for the story to not only fit into 100k words but sparkle (i.e. The Six Brothers project), has left me feeling a bit uncomfortable. Like I need more wiggle room, a tiny more space by the little left toe.

However, I’m going to keep shoving my unwieldy feet into the glass slippers until I make it to that freaking ball.

This girl might show up limping, but Chloe Stowe is dancing, darn it.

I just wish Disney would put a warning tag on its shoes.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Send Me No Flowers

I’m feeling monumentally silly this morning, so you may want to pass on this nonsensical grievance.

*waits patiently for 72.3% of the blogging audience to file out the door*

Assuming that everybody who remains is willing not to pass guillotine-like judgment, I will continue with the day’s stupidity.

Ready?

Here we go...

Today, I’m mourning the death of my garden.

Literally.

I feel like I’ve lost a friend in the blink of a cold, unforgiving night.

How freaking silly is that?

In a world running over with real tragedies and real losses, my “grief” is simply idiotic. I realize this. I recognize it. But it doesn’t make the loss any less shallow.

I’m always telling my psychiatrist that I feel so achingly silly all the time. (When success is measured by how many people you dare to interact with during a day, your life can really be considered nothing but, well, stupid and trite. I mean, really? You dared to visit two little boys’ lemonade stand across the street and you are fist-pumping the air and considering a ticker tape parade? Now, how is that anything but dumb?)

So, I shouldn’t be surprised by my sadness over winter stealing away my flowers.

I shouldn’t be, but I am.

Sometimes silliness sucks.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Treasure the Piggish Hours

I wrote good yesterday.

Pardon the lack of fireworks or gratuitous adjectives.

Sometimes they’re just not necessary.

Sometimes the truth is just that simple.

(Although I’ve now come across as a boorish twat thumbing her nose at all those inconsequential worker bees of the past like Dickens, Eliot and James… *dark clouds gather rapidly in the skies above*…That snap, crackle and pop you hear is literary lightning striking and frying the uppity Ms. Stowe. Good riddance to her too, I say.)

Ignoring all of the above nonsense, I did enjoy a refreshing streak of “Wow! That really is kind of awesome” writing yesterday.

That “I’m good and I know it” groove happens so rarely with me that when I accidentally stumble upon it, I roll around in it squealing like a little pig in fresh mud. (It’s all rather embarrassing.)

I mention it here to spur on the newbie writers out there who are suffering from the dry spells all authors suffer through.

There is mud out there.

You will find it.

And you will roll.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Cowering in the Parenthetical

Got a weather situation going on here. (Insert: Flailing Arms and Disaster Gear Prep.)

Me and my pup have got Tornado Warnings scattered about northern Florida while a blanket Tornado Watch covers us until 2pm. Then, to just add to the drama, a Hard Freeze Watch is up for tomorrow night. (It’s 71 right now… yeah, not good.)

Looking on the bright side of imminent destruction and potentially life-altering mayhem, at least this weather event has given me something to blog about this morning. (Crown me “Miss Silver Lining.”)

I’m sure you were all getting bored hearing about the Six Brothers, mondo grass and my general state of nuttiness. (I mean, “Sometimes you feel like a nut, and sometimes you don’t”…. Almond Joy or Mounds, anyone? *chuckles nervously as the frantic search for batteries begins, but not before some chocolate*)

My mixed metaphor lectures on life, writing and the occasional garden drama were getting a little stale and moth-eaten. (Note the mixed metaphor here… Hey, I can do them in any weather. *winks desperately* (Can a person even “wink desperately,” I wonder?... Geez, somebody make me shut up.)

So, let’s all enjoy this break from the blogging norm and embrace the parentheses. (Have you noticed the sheer number of parentheses in this post? Apparently, I have some sort of Parenthetical Nervous Tic.)

Anyhow, I believe I have babbled incoherently enough for today. I will let you all get to your Mondays, while my furry muse and I head to the bathtub. (No basement. No storm shelter. So tub, it is… This is going to be a long, uncomfortable day.)

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Size 8, Red

I’d like to request a harness, please.

You know, one of those that the dangling window washers in NYC last week were sporting?

The kind that keeps you calm and cool in, well, life’s most dangling moments?

Yep, one of those. In red, if you’ve got it.

Thankfully, my dog already has one and is firmly tethered to my side (despite her very rational protests and her squiggling, furry behind).

Yesterday, I had a bit of a “yawning, gaping, what-the-crap-am-I-doing moment.”

The reality that I am no longer contracted by anybody anywhere to publish another word in the entirety of my life jumped up and bit me in the butt.

As expected, I yelped.

Flailed a bit.

And, surprisingly, recovered. (Yeah, I didn’t expect that either.)

Facing the cavernous mainstream romance genre is occasionally scary-as-all-heck.

While I am adjusting slowly to the challenge facing me, the lack of any kind of a safety harness (i.e. a contract with Ravenous Romance to fall back upon, which I’ve clung to for the last 5 years) does send my nerves a-chattering sometimes.

Sometimes was yesterday.

Hence, my harness request.

Size 8, please.  

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Hodgepodge

As the title suggests, a day of ill-shaped bits and pieces…

-After a less than stellar start to the writing week (i.e. bumpy as he**), the Six Brothers is finally starting to roll. The fact that I’ve spent the entirety of the last two work days waltzing with a supporting character whom I can make as quirky as I want should be added as a disclaimer.

-A shout-out to my subconscious this morning. Last night I had a nightmare so blatantly horrible I was actually surprised by its dark ingenuity. After twenty-odd years of very, very bad dreams this is high praise indeed.

-My 4 little clumps of mondo grass in the dark little corner of my backyard are still alive and kicking. Feel free to take this analogy and run with it.

-It’s cold. I despise being cold. I think it’s a mental thing. But really, what in my life is not?

-Went to the store to buy Cinnamon. Came back with Cumin. If it wasn’t for my habit of smelling every spice before I use it, my Molasses Christmas cookies would have been “interesting” indeed. Visions of lawsuits from fellow church members danced in my head. I backed away from the mixing bowl at that point and scampered away.

Here ends today’s hodgepodge.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Meanwhile, in the Laboratory...

I have an unhealthy relationship with honesty… I demand it of myself.

Not a problem in real life. In fact, it’s kind of refreshing, I think. A bit obsessive, as well. For example: Ask me how I slept last night and prepare for the gory details. A “Fine” will hardly ever cut it when nightmares curl around me like lovers every night.

So maybe (i.e. definitely, absolutely, “Please, make it stop!”) the honesty jag is a little annoying to family, friends, strangers, etc. I do try to temper it, though. I succeed a lot of the time too.

However…

In my writing, give me a character based on a real, historical, once-living-and-breathing entity and I go rather stupid with the honest kink.

I mean, I feel kind of Frankenstein-ish changing the way a guy really looked. Fiddling with his age or his background is tantamount to a major crime in Chloe World. Even if I’ve changed the man’s name, reinvented him to a completely different beast than the original, guilt tackles me and drags me to the ground yelling “God-Complex! God-Complex!”

It’s really rather freaky.

Why am I telling you this?

Freaky sometimes works.

As an author, embrace the freak in you.

Maybe, that’s what will make you stand out just enough to catch that publishing house’s eye.

Meanwhile, me and Igor will continue to play harmlessly in the laboratory, creating fiction out of truth.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Love & War

After a night in which my complete ineffectuality as a human being was blasted at me in dream Technicolor, I humbly ask apologies for my tone today.

It could be a little, well, pissy.

Sorry.

Now, putting that aside, I’d like to discuss Writer Warfare today.

*glances pointedly at my 15 pound, four-legged, muse kitted out in combat helmet and tac vest*

*studiously ignores the “You are SOOO going to pay for this” look on said geared-up beast’s face*

As I mentioned yesterday, I struggle with writing the traditional romantic female leads.

I generally find them boring and pretentious.

*warily watches the door for RWA (Romance Writer Association) troops to storm the house and strip me bare of my membership*

So, now that I’ve alienated most likely half of my readers I better explain myself before picket signs start popping up in all my comment boxes.

A “perfect” man is so much easier to swallow than a “perfect” woman. (Minds out of the gutters, people. *snickers*)

In my opinion, the best protagonist is a flawed protagonist. And while each of these traditional female leads I’m wary about have their foibles and sometimes truly gashing scars, their faults by the end of the love story are so caked over with the heavy-handed blush of romance that they resemble Barbie dolls more than living, breathing humans.

*listens as another quarter of the audience storms out the blog auditorium’s doors*

Of course, all of the above may only be a result of my skewed life. (A chronic panic disorder which sends you into the DTs at the unexpected ring of your doorbell does tend to taint your view on the world.)

I realize that and I am trying my darnedest to battle it, hence, the warfare bit and the camo paint on my dog.

Admitting your problem is half the battle, they say. So, with the confession part now in the books, I hope the skirmishes with the dear ladies of the Six Brothers will be toned down just a bit.

I’m trying.

My muse is trying.

I’ll keep you updated on the efforts from the field.

Dismissed.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Clover Wars

This was the dark little corner in my little backyard.

As dramatized masterfully (*straight face, straight face*) in this blog a few days ago, I have finally braved the dank, studiously ignored nook and planted 4 mounds of dark, beautifully green miniature mondo grass in its weed infested confines.

I show it to you this morning to prove that I did indeed put that particularly cowardice to bed, so to speak.

I can truly do such things. Vanquishing dark corners are possible in my world.

Really.

Look at that mondo grass and you’ll see.

Unfortunately, the dark, unexplored corners in my writing are not so easy to brave.

By concentrating almost entirely on m/m romance the last 5 years, I have successfully sidestepped writing romantic female leads (an embarrassing spot in my oeuvre which only dandelion weeds and unplanned clover have ever been able to take root.)

The Six Brothers 100K mainstream project I have embarked upon is anchored almost entirely in that corner and I’m flailing a bit in its unchartedness.

But if I can do mondo grass, I can do romantic female leads.

I can.

Really.

Just look at that picture and see what I can do.

*brave face, brave face*

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Stubbed: A Writer's Plight

I’d like to start by saying “Ouch!” The rest of the four letter expletives I will leave to your own imaginations. (By all means, be colorful. I certainly was.)

If I come out the other side of writing the Six Brothers with a single toe not in a cast, splint or a body bag I will indeed count myself lucky.

Yesterday, I once again stubbed the heck out of my literary big toe. Put pen to paper and fell flat on my face.

“Splat!” went Chloe on the carpet.

It was quite ugly. (My dog got a lot of enjoyment out of it however.)

Uglier still was the next five hours in which I wiggled around on the floor, coughing up the occasional sentence until my word count reached 103.

Yes, 103.

Instead of snapping my stupid literary big toe off and ramming said appendage down the garbage disposal, I hobbled out to that dark little corner in my yard and planted me some mondo grass. (See “Tackling That Corner” post a few days ago for details. This really does make good sense, trust me.)

Four little clumps of dark green grass I nestled tenderly into the earth. (This, of course, was after I hacked the weeds to death and yanked their spiny little corpses out of the ground… I enjoyed this part most of all. I can’t imagine why.)

After hosing my mulchy self down and limping back to the couch, I somehow managed to eke out another 450 words on the Six Brothers.

So, in short, my 558 word accomplishment was not only painful, it was dirty and itchy.

And you still want to be a writer?

*considers, then winces*

Yeah, ok, so do I. Now, shut up and leave me to my stupid big toe.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Pie Chest

Writing this blog can be terribly confusing.

What you poor, loyal-to-a-fault people must go through actually reading it is beyond me… I feel like I should bake you all a pie or something.

The point is that no matter what I choose to write about on a given day, I feel like I’m betraying/letting down/neglecting a certain wedge of my audience (Think pie chart, here… *chuckles*… Apparently “Pie” is the theme for today. I really don’t plan these things. They just sneak up on me like spot-on ninjas. Kind of frightening, actually.)

My brilliant cache of followers is very diverse, as I’m sure you can well imagine.

Some of you come for Chloe the Author.

Some of you stop by for Chloe the Odd.

Still another slice of you drop in for Chloe, Panic’s Whore.

Each readership is dear to me, and I try to keep everyone well entertained, informed and bolstered as best as I can. But choosing which blogging host to be that day can be, like I said, confusing.

Usually, I roll out of bed and grab the first hat my sleep-dumb mind can manage that day.

Sometimes, I choose poorly.

Sorry about that.

Sorry that you have no idea what’s going to be served up to you until you sit yourself down at my blogging table that day. Kind of unfair of me, I know.

But just like a Pumpkin, Cherry, Chocolate Pie would never, ever work, a blog addressing all of my followers would really be quite foul… And with “Author, Odd One and Panic’s Whore” already front and center on my business card, I really don’t have room to add “Careless Purveyor of Botulism” to my record.

What was the point of this post, you wonder?

I wonder too.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Tackling That Corner

There’s a corner in my tiny backyard which is always dark and always damp.

Nothing but weeds will grow there.

Grass disdains even the notion of venturing into the dampish shadows. And after a valiant attempt, even a beautiful little magnolia tree lost its life in the dank outpost. (My gardening skills were beyond naïve at that horticultural low point of my life.  Thankfully, I’ve learned much since then.)

So, over the years I have essentially ignored the little spot, concentrating my efforts on the beautifully sun-bleached vistas of my tee-tiny plot…

Not anymore.

My trusty, four-legged sidekick and I are going in.  

Armed with a hoe, a trowel, a humongous bag of mulch and four clumps of dwarf mondo grass, me and my dog are taking back our troublesome little corner!

While this daily author’s blog may seem like a terribly odd place to note this journey/rescue mission, I trust with a little extrapolation all you authors out there can see the correlation.

Every writer has such an abandoned corner in their literary skills. A certain “thing” that we try our darnedest to ignore. Even if this avoidance is not intentional I’m sure if you look hard enough you will find that it is there.

It’s probably something little, something corny, something that you feel doesn’t even really bear mentioning. But it is a part of your whole.

There’s no doubt I could have a beautiful backyard despite that dark little corner. I could simply work around it, hide it behind prettier, easier things…

But I’d be missing an opportunity.

My backyard is tiny enough, hacking off a corner of it simply because I’m afraid to f**k it up is really kind of stupid.

So, grab your tools, your muse and some dwarf mondo grass and tackle the forgotten!

And so here today’s very weird “Go and get ‘em!” speech.

*chuckles at the blatant silliness/poorly-worded-wisdom of it all*

Until tomorrow…

Chloe and her mondo

The Confidence Game

I can write.

This is no longer a question, a hope, a “teetering on the brink of despair” plea to the literary muses.

It is a statement, complete with a period and an end of paragraph swipe of the return key.

*haughty stature deflates just a bit as the truth nags and nags and…*

Alright. I admit that the period at the end of the declarative sentence is a little lax in enthusiasm.

The period may in fact be a little pale and still unsure of itself.

The pounding of the return key possibly could have been an accident (but I didn’t correct it so that’s got to count for something in the confidence game, right?... Right?)

Jeez, I’m trying here folks. Give me some credit, huh?

*sighs*

Yesterday, after days of Not Writing, Barely Writing and “Look at me, I made a sentence!” Writing, I was actually able to slap some really good stuff down on the Six Brothers project. The kind of “really good stuff” you read back over and throw a triumphant fist into the air. Yep, I’m talking that rare vintage of the “really good stuff.”

So, I thought it quite honest of me to start this post off by stating that “I can write.”

It was a little iffy there for a while, the grammatical ground a little shaky but…

That sweet (though admittedly still shy) period is back! Yippee!!

*clears throat, regains composure, chuckles at the foolishness of it all*

Just thought I’d share.

Have a great Saturday, everyone!

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

A Stated Quandary

I need a committee.

A small group of highly trained professionals and forward thinkers whose sole purpose is to answer this single question… “Just how romance-y should I make the Six Brothers be?”

Ignoring the fact that romance-y is not a word, I think it is a reasonable question for the great minds of literature, publishing and entrepreneurial spirit to address.

As I continue to climb back into the proverbial writing saddle after my abrupt buck-off the other day, I find myself still struggling with how, well, “gooey” to make the romantic sweetness of my 100k novel-to-be?

Should I hold back some on the tried-but-true “Hello. I’m a romance novel” clichés? Or should I employ them to boost sellability (another not-real word) to publishing houses?

Is the fact that for the first time I will be having a literary agent interfacing on my behalf during the “Please, please, buy me!” stages a safety net I should count on? Or is it simply a trap, luring me into a pitfall of “I know better than the other thousands of successful romance writers already out there?”

Yep, I need a committee.

Maybe a think tank.

Applications now being accepted.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Skittish, Spooked, but Present

Baby steps were taken in the writing of Six Brothers yesterday.

I was a bit skittish, I will admit.

Having been thrown flailing from the creative mount the day before, I was a little nervous crawling back onto the equine’s back. I blame this apprehension entirely on the said-flailing.

It was… *winces sourly*… ungainly.

Perhaps if I had managed to do it with a graceful swan dive or a head-held-high “Excuse me, while I depart from this beast,” the reclaiming of the saddle wouldn’t have been done so warily.  

I was spooked.

Being spooked is a terrible place for a writer to be… unless of course you’re writing a Stephen King-esque piece in which being scared crap-less is all part of the fun.

I eked out maybe 100 words in yesterday’s return. Yeah, I know. Pretty miserable performance there.

But…

There was indeed a performance.

There was indeed a rider on that wiggling mount.

That’s what is important.

*deep breath, deep breath, deep breath*

At least that’s what I’m telling myself as I force myself back up onto that dang saddle again today.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Physical Cajole

After seven hours of taking a melon baller to my highly-trained and regularly effusive imagination and scraping out not a single word (let me repeat here, NOT A SINGLE WORD) toward the Six Brothers, I called my mother, confessed to being a waste of her DNA, grabbed a hoe and hacked to death a gang of weeds in my flower garden.

That was my Tuesday.

How was yours?

*chuckles grimly*

Yesterday I sucked so bad at being a writer it was absurd.

At one point I was literally clawing at my head, trying to pull, yank, physically cajole my freaking imagination into giving me something. Anything. Heck, I would have taken a “Jack ran up Bunker Hill” at that point.

But, nope. I got nothing.

I tried all my writing tricks that usually drag at least a 100 words of useable fluff-smut from my head.

Again, I came up dry.

The frustration, I feared, was going to be interminable, scarring, a bloody mess to clean up…

So I called my mommy and turned to the hoe.

Absurdity, thy name is Chloe Stowe.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe