It Brews in the East

Like a storm brewing threateningly in the east, a new story has begun to churn on my horizon.

This is worrisome on many counts.

1.) Next week, when my writing schedule should return to pre-holiday hours (pardon the “Yippee!” at this), The Hushing Days MUST be finished before anything else is begun. This is cold, hard fact.

2.) My mind does not need a new cache of characters muddying up its already chaotic waters. Sorry, but there’s no room in the madhouse.

3.) This new story would be another venture into historical fiction… i.e. this new story would be quite old by the time a “The End” was latched upon its tail.

4.) To further expound upon #3, this story is based in a time period and a land which I do not know in the least. Bad idea, all around.

So, please join me in belaying this latest story gremlin. Someone buy him a cup of coffee or something. Keep him occupied for a month or two more and I’ll get back to the sprout with fresh eyes and real time on my hands in February.

Inspiration, alas, is often ill-timed and fleeting.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Ragged from the Trying

I flail.

Constantly and absurdly.

Like a flea lashing out against the wind (i.e. electric fan) through which his promised land lies (i.e. sheep dog.)

I do not say this lightly. Likening oneself to an annoying, toothy gnat is not nice on one’s self-esteem, let me assure you.

But there you are, or there I am rather… Flea-like.

What’s brought this on, you might wander?

My travel blog. You know, old “Tiptoeing Soul.” A decadent, voracious but much needed muncher of my spare time. Yesterday I spent five hours writing/posting the thing… a thing no more than a dozen or so people will ever read.

Why would I do such a foolish thing?

Flea-flailing.

This little flea fated to be financially dependent on family forever continues to lash out heartily against the electric fan (mental illness) of my existence.

Let’s be brutally honest for a moment. I will most likely die essentially broke and alone one day. But, if it’s any consolation to anyone, my bones will be buried exhausted and ragged from the trying.

Whether this is good, bad or sad, I frankly don’t know.. but I don’t think fleas generally care much about appearances anyhow.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe, the Flea

Post-note: In case you are interested, in this one analogy my “sheep dog” would be making enough to file income tax. A small sheep dog, to be sure, but one that would be cherished absurdly.

Tiptoeing Soul: Writing Nook #5: Elmwood Heritage Inn, Charlotteto...

Tiptoeing Soul: Writing Nook #5: Elmwood Heritage Inn, Charlotteto...: (This is part five of my search for the best writing nooks in the world. The previous posts are available here . From now on, all nooks w...

The Mad Plotter Behind My Brow

I believe there is a mad plotter residing in my head. Just behind my left brow. A smidge off center and to the right. Do you have one?

Mine can put up one heck of an ache when overtaxed. Understandable, I suppose.

But he can also put up one heck of a pinch when underused, abandoned, tossed like ashes to the wind. This I didn’t know until last night.

My dreams (normally horrid things anyway which I am lucky enough to remember every detail of, every night) took on a particular plot-laden air. Romance novel plots. Tropes, if you’d prefer. Betrayals of one sister for the other sister. Sinister scams involving sex and crocodile tears. Evil twins popping up out of the woodwork. Amnesia ruining wedding days. “Dead” lovers ruining honeymoons…

It was all very ridiculous and rather seedy. Apparently, my lack of writing time these past weeks resulted in my inner-fictional strategist throwing up his cookies all over my sleep last night.

Thanks for that.

Much appreciated.

As a result, I’ll be spending the rest of the day scraping plotter vomit out of my consciousness.

Yeah, cheers, mate.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Pistachios and Cream Sherry

For a woman of my age (43 years), I should be more than a hastily sketched figure. My character should be in bolder print than in unsure smudges of charcoal across newsprint. When submerged in my family, the delineations of Chloe Stowe should not dissolve and disappear entirely.

But they do.

You would think such an odd character as myself would stand out boldly (though annoyingly) in a crowd of normal… like a pistachio nut in a bowl of mashed potatoes.

But my pistachio-ness simply evaporates, leaving little but a misshapen shell of what was…

Well, now, that sounds a bit more morose than I’d planned. It is hardly as sad as all that, I assure you. 

But it is worth taking note, I believe.

So take note, world. There is a proud pistachio among you. Though I may not be seen nor tasted, I am determined to be remembered…

Ok, that’s even more angst-ridden. I think I’ll stop there before I drive us all to the cream sherry.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

On Edge

I hugged a weed edger yesterday.

The implement not the implementer… as if that makes it any less weird.

Lime sherbet in color, light in hand, electric in spirit, the new string trimmer I found under my Christmas tree quickly stole this OCD girl’s heart.  No longer will my tiny Florida garden be held captive by the whims of an ever-changing neighborhood lawn crew who could care less about my impatiens…

Yes, I realize this makes me sound like I’m 93 and living in a well-planned (and padded) community for end-of-lifers.  

Instead of cringing at this fact, however, I choose to embrace the eccentricity and consider it simply planning ahead for my committal in 50 years.

Thinking ahead is key in maintaining a façade of sanity.

*winks*

Until tomorrow…

Chloe 

Waterlogged

After spending forty-three Christmases on this earth, all of them in the state of Alabama, the weather really shouldn’t surprise me. I am rather observant after all. But yesterday blew me out of the water… thankfully, not literally but it was a close thing.

Flooding.

Noah-like flooding in places that just don’t flood. Ever.

EMA spent the day squawking at us not to step foot, tire or well-intentioned kayak on the roads.

So, needless to say, my five year old nephew and parental accompaniments could not make it over to Christmas. Merriment has been put off until today... if the three inches of water in their front yard parts like the Red Sea and lets them through, that is.

Anyhow, I haven’t gotten so much as a dry crumb of writerly thought in me this morning. So I’m not going to even attempt to be bloggy… Yeah, yeah, don’t ask me what all this was then. I’m so waterlogged I don’t really care.

You know what? Apologies for this post. Forget it ever happened.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

A Hoot, A Holler

Alive, well and wrapping.

Isn’t it glorious!

As writing will be taking its appropriate backseat to Christmas today and tomorrow, I will not attempt to bore you with well-intentioned but wholly worthless authorian fluff.

*a smattering of applause mixes with an overly enthusiastic hoot and holler from the belly of the blog auditorium*

Yes, well, before anyone pops open the champagne, I and my fluff will return on Saturday.

Have a Merry Christmas, everyone!

Until Saturday…

Chloe

Stogies & Berluti

Things are clearly getting out of hand.

Or should I say out of foot?

Let me explain.

I spent approximately 20 minutes last night researching the best and/or most expensive men’s shoes in the world.

Why?

Had I stumbled into a windfall of cash and lost my mind?... No, at least not the windfall part. The mind issue we’ll leave for another discussion.

Had inspiration hit my writerly nodes? Had a great character just pleading to be born onto paper suddenly appeared amongst the gales of a freakish storm?... Um, not quite.

The answer?... Stupid, silly, OCD, please-please-let-me-write-something old me worked on her weekly travel blog. As per custom, it seems, another random character was introduced to introduce the week’s writing nook.

That’s all fine and dandy, a little bit weird I’ll give you, but within acceptable bounds. However, when this forever-nameless gent begs for a description down to his freaking feet, alarm bells ring… 

Or at least they should. Me? I’m hearing nothing but his burly brogue chuckling around the occasional hitch in his lungs brandishing the surly fellow a lifelong smoker. (Of cigars, I believe. Give me another half-hour and I’ll give you the brand.)

See my problem?

Good. You keep an eye on it while I dive into the history of coronas.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post Note: Please spare a few thoughts and prayers to the Southeast today as strong tornadoes are possible this afternoon and overnight. Selfishly, I’d like to spend the day wrapping presents instead of cowering in my father’s walk-in closet. 

Left Heel

With yesterday mostly scraped off my shoes (there is a bit of unmentionables stubbornly stuck to my left heel), I am ready to meet the rest of the Christmas week with appropriate glee and merriment.

Really.

On Santa’s honor.

Realizing early on that yesterday was a lost cause, I further soured the day by throwing in some website work. I despise working on my website. (Abhor, loathe, hate with a blistering passion would not be ill-used here.) Since I was already in a foul temper, I didn’t figure web design could make it any worse.

I was correct, but it was a close thing.

Remember, dear writers, take advantage of the crappy days to do your least favorite authorian things. At least then when you fall into bed thoroughly disgusted with life, you’ll know you’ve at least inched your career along.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Untitled by Consent

“You can cut the tension around here with a knife,” grouched an unhappy family participant five minutes ago.

I rolled my eyes, despising understatement. “Please. A 24-in Husqvarna Chainsaw couldn’t touch the stress in this sweat box.” Neither my opinion nor my presence is appreciated right now.

And that’s how my Christmas week begins.

Hope yours does NOT include any instruments of death, mayhem or dismemberment.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe, the Desperate to be Jolly

Cache of Confetti

Doesn’t every writer have a cache of confetti in their pocket? A to-go celebration always handy when authorial accomplishments are reached?

*the din of silence speaks volumes*

Fine.

Be that way.

However, I never go anywhere without my confetti. And if I’ve been excused of premature ticker-taping myself, so be it. It’s better to celebrate too early than to never celebrate at all.

So, you’ll excuse the bits of colored tinsel currently raining down upon your head. I’ve confetti-ed myself just this morning because I got 7 likes on my newest travel blog post.

Yes, 7.

It’s a record for me and the “Tiptoeing Soul,” so I don’t want to hear one whisper of pity or a single “Poor thing.” I’m enjoying my little moment of glee, and there will be no apologies for it.

Now, if you have an objection to streamers I’d hurry on. I’m feeling awful generous with my joy this morning and feel another celebration coming on.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Real Lives of Toy Soldiers

So, I went over to my nephew’s last night. (FYI: He’s five years old, brilliant and handsomely mischievous. Top of the line tot, all the way. No Aunt-bias speaking here at all.)

He had a bucket of little plastic soldiers, hundreds of them in a dozen or so different battle stances. Well, we started naming them. (FYI: Trouble brews whenever an author is asked to start naming things.)

Well, as expected, with tee-tiny soldiers Joey, Philip, Charlie and Thomas came tee-tiny backgrounds. We’re talking full, technicolor character bios blazing across the screens of my woefully neglected imagination.

Not wanting to warp my dear nephew, I shared none of soldier Joey’s childhood woes on the shores of a bitterly cold Lake Superior.

Philip’s run-ins with the law when he was but a wee teen were tucked neatly out of sight.

Charlie’s pregnant girlfriend and his oh-so clueless wife were secrets left in the dark.

And, needless to say, the butterflies in Thomas’ lower belly whenever Commander Joe marched by were not touched with a ten foot pole.

*sighs*

I think I need some help.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-Note: Beware the fiction writer who’s been unable to write. Melodrama will be found everywhere.  

Thingamajig, Thingamabob

I filled out the RWA/Stanford Survey thingamajig yesterday. (Yes, I did just use the word “thingamajig” in an opening line. Is there no clearer sign of writerly rot than that? I think not.)

Anyhow, I filled it out, felt rather accomplished for a good half of the experience, felt rather failure-like for the other half. A bit of a cup half-filled / half-empty thingamabob, that. (“Thingamabob?” Rot, rot, I say.)

One question in particular had me seeing expletives. “Do you figure on making more money from your writing next year than you did this past year?”

Surprisingly, they didn’t have “Are you freaking kidding me? I darn well better,” as a multiple choice answer. So, I politely checked the “Yes, please” equivalent and moved on with my day.

Why I’m bothering to share any of this with you, I have no idea.

I blame the rot.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Under the Bridge

In the past two days I have baked 10 loaves of bread (6 Cranberry Nut Orange Loaves, 2 Blueberry Pecans, 2 Pumpkin Walnuts) and made 2 pies (Bourbon Walnut and Apple Cranberry Raisin).

Would somebody please explain to me how this helps my writing career?

And/or what an author of mainstream romance is supposed to learn from said oven-time?

Please postmark all responses to the cinnamon-scented writer living under the bridge.

Thank you and good day.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe 

Pennies in the Grass

Should one stoop to pick up pennies or stand tall (and broke) in search of the rare half-dollar?

Most up-and-coming writers have to face this quandary at some point. I, for instance, am nose to nose with it at the moment, and I’m feeling darn uncomfortable about the whole confrontation.

After a year of seeing hardly any new money coming in (i.e. only old royalties on genre romance from small publishing houses), after a year of spending virtually every writing moment trying to dig up that first 50-center (I.e. mainstream romancer, i.e. The Hushing Days), the abandoned pennies are looking pretty shiny right now.

If only one could live off pennies, I’d gladly spend my time scooping them up.

But life requires at least the occasional half-dollar. (Rumor has it that once you find your first, the second and third are a little easier to come by.)

Yep, feeling darn uncomfortable standing nose to nose with this old dilemma.

Darn uncomfortable.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Fiendish, I Say

I have never once in my illustrious life been called fiendish. I feared it was simply not within me. Just as chatty, sparkly and chummy are fundamentally beyond my DNA, fiendish was a laughable offense of which to accuse me….

Until my travel blog, that is.

As I’m sure you well remember, I am using my “Tiptoeing Soul” blog to feed my writing fix until familial circumstances permit me to return to the final edits of my 18^th novel, The Hushing Days. An enjoyable undertaking all around, plus a nice break from fiction writing…

Well, that was the plan, at least.

Here’s where the fiendishness comes in.

In last week’s Tiptoeing Soul post and in this week’s, I have somehow managed to slip in fictional characters to help me introduce the writing nook. Last week it was a “cockeyed” bloke who stumbled upon my blog. This week, it’s a nasal-voiced auntish character with disapproval seething from her every cockle. These players are only present for the opening paragraph or two. They have no names, no existence beyond their one brief interlude but they are, in my mind, wholly fleshed out fictional characters.

Fiendish use of a travel blog, wouldn’t you say?

I should feel guilty, I suppose.

But I don’t.

Not even a pinch.

I guess, I truly am a fiend.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Set No Place for the Albatross

While a white-knuckled grip is acceptable (if kept under the table or in sturdier coat pockets), clinching your eyes shut and speed-murmuring prayers out loud into a festive lot of family members is not.

More’s the pity, because I am rather good at that.

Surviving the holidays with the Ghost of Clinical Crazy hanging like an albatross around your neck is not easy, neither, alas, is it pretty… which is all to say that I am a quite terrible guest.

Do not invite me to your Christmas shindigs.

Do not set a place for me at your Christmas table.

While the spirit would be oh-so willing and ever-so jolly, the mind would be a rather nasty Grinch spreading nothing but discomfort and ill-at-ease to one and all.

Mental illness, a supposedly “silent” disease, is never so loud and outwardly damning than in the Christmas season.

Small, immovable truth, that.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

A Blissful Couching

It was refreshing, really. Two hours of bloggy bliss, I’d go as far to say.

Curling up on a borrowed couch, laptop snugly on lap, four-legged, furry muse on hip, I demanded and received two hours of uninterrupted writing time. My travel blog proved another use as I rightfully claimed that a post had to be made last night or I could just as well give the project up for lost (alright, a bit of exaggeration that, but I do prefer to post once a week and it had been a long seven days indeed since the last Writing Nook had hit the airwaves.)

Anyhow, it went splendidly.

I do so love to write.

Sometimes you forget the love you have for a thing until you revisit it, however briefly.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Fish Bowl Tactic

I had to drag out the old fish bowl for this one.

*plops said-fish bowl on the table, scooches it into better light*

Whenever I have a particularly inane or insane incident with my crazies (panic, anxiety and gnat tendencies at the restaurant Thursday night… see yesterday’s blog for the bloody particulars), I try to examine the happening from all angles.

Putting it in this old fish bowl here, I try my darnedest to learn something from it. Either what I can do differently next time to prevent Stuck-Bug Syndrome, or at least note down what the Stuck-Bug triggers were. (Seeing as how understanding my panic disorder has become the white whale to my Ahab, all data is appreciated.)

If nothing valuable can be learned there, I try to flip the incident into something literary. Putting different characters in the same situation and watching how they’d each handle the Stuck-Bugness is surprisingly enlightening… most of the time.

This time, not so much.

Oh well. The old fish bowl trick doesn’t always work, but it does make one heck of a conversation piece to drag out in a Saturday blog.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Broken & Spooned

A broken gnat trapped under a spoon.

I could leave it there, you know? Let you dangle, scratch your head at the utter stupidity of the image. 

But I’m a kind broken gnat and seeing as how I’m no longer stuck under polished silverware I figured I’d explain.

Last night I went to dinner at a very nice restaurant with the entire family.

The food was good, the company better and all was merry and bright… except for my gnatness.

Inconsequential, broken headed me pinned down in a restaurant with panic eating at my gnat bones (Do gnats even have bones? Not the point, I suppose.)

Anyhow, I survived. Played it off pretty well, too. But, truth is, I was a gnat. Keep it to yourselves though. Need to keep that super cool Chloe Stowe illusion going.

Yeah, right.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe, the Belittled

A Deserved Head Shiver

With my Daughter Hat firmly reattached to my head, I believe I have finally settled in for the whole holiday run. There should be no more dragging myself and my four-legged, furry muse across state lines until after Santa comes and goes.

Whew!

The fact that we ended up on the wrong side of the state line for my authorly instincts is neither here nor there really. My Writer Hat has been essentially on sabbatical since August anyway so a few more weeks on the shelf shouldn’t make much difference to the old chapeau. Maybe a layer of dust will add a bit of charm to the whole Chloe Stowe ensemble? Nostalgia sells, right? A rusty writer should sell marvelously… at least, to the flea market crowd.

Seeing as I’m slowly screwing my self-esteem down into a hole with this post, I’m going to abandon this holiday cheer effort here. I’m feeling rather disgusted with my selfishness and doubt I’m worthy of donning any hat at the moment…

Oh well, I probably deserve a cold head.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Unbowed

No, my tail is not tucked.

I’m not hunkered under the couch whining for forgiveness.

My ears aren’t even thrown back in a knot of panic behind my head.

My absence today has simply been an unpleasant side effect to a day of zigzagging across the southeast United States.

It has NOT been a result of regret, rethinking or self-recrimination over yesterday’s post.

Nope.

The mileage just got me today. Apologies for that but not for that other that… oh you know what I mean.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe the Unbowed

Silence Not Allowed

There are rules, gosh darn it!

*pounds fists onto the table, breathing picking up steam*

Hard and fast rules for writing an author’s blog. I’ve read them, abided by them (somewhat) or at least followed their lead in most things author bloggish.

Rule #3 or 4 reads in part (sort of), “Your professional author’s blog is not a soapbox. Politics should be kept well clear of all your posts. Your potential reading public is everyone. Alienating one group by needlessly spouting off your own opinion is irresponsible and stupid.”

Well, that was clearly written before Trump.

I’m sorry. I’ve tried really, really hard not to soapbox here… Yeah, yeah, I know. Failures have occurred. In fact, one fat one is about to occur right now.

Trump’s latest call to ban all Muslim immigrants to the U.S. is so idiotic that it way, way negates the idiocy of me stating my opinion of it here.

Not only is his plan the aforementioned idiotic, it is heartless, bigoted to the upmost and laughingly irrational.

It is shameful that the frontrunner of one of the two major American political parties would proclaim such a thing to a roaring crowd. Trump has his right to his opinion and he can spout his nonsense all he wants, but when people cheer and applaud such hatred it is really rather frightening.

*breathing slows as, surprisingly, regret does not settle in*

There. I’m done. And if this little rule breaking has cursed my career, so be it. Hatred is stupidity and must be confronted… even if it’s only from this wee-little soapbox.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Play in Traffic

As I continue to spend an inordinate amount of time on my travel/mental health blog (in defense, when one cannot write stories, one must write something), a certain question has arisen several times… “Is this helping my writing career, at all?”

Good question.

While the scattered hours I spend on searching out and typing up writing nooks around the world is substantially (oh yes, way, way) less time than I’d spend on my publishable fiction, these hours are ones in which I could, I suppose, potentially, in the abstract, dabble in the final edits of The Hushing Days. However, and this is a mighty big “however”, I don’t want to mess the novel up by said sporadic dabbling.

The Hushing Days is important… potentially very important to my career. No matter how much I’d love to dabble with it, I cannot risk tweaking it without full attention being spent.

So travel blogging it is.

Besides, a writer must always situate herself in the middle of publishing traffic. Keeping your name out there in any writing medium is crucial to career-babying.

Right?

Right.

Justification over.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Adding to the Stack

I’m half of the mind to write something serious. Not here. No. Yesterday’s foray into bleakness is about as serious as I’d like to venture here. I’m still feeling a bit guilty about that one. Hardly inspiring, it was.

Anyhow, back to the opening point. Serious fiction has always intrigued me, taunted me even. When you’ve traversed as many literature courses as I have over the years, the “I wonder if I could do that too?” has inevitably nibbled at me.

Now, as I sit in limbo for the next few weeks (The Hushing Days edits a January reality now), the question has popped up again.

Could I do it?

Yes.

Could I sell it?

Iffy, at best.

But isn’t “iffy” miles and miles above the firm “no” I would have given six years ago before I’d sold a single word?

Maybe “iffy” is as good as it’s ever going to get?

Perhaps, after The Hushing Days finds a home, I should give the serious fiction thing a go?

Oh, who knows.

Who the heck knows.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

A Fool & Her Heart

I would dearly like to linger here.

Home, that is.

People are quite fond of saying “home is where the heart is,” but I find my heart always being dragged along wherever the rest of my body goes. Oh, if only I could I would often leave my feelings behind, tucked safely away under the pillow of my bed, instead of lugging them about hither and yon, snagging them on this and that, leaving bloody messes wherever I and my troublesome heart roam…

But that is neither here nor there, I suppose. Nothing to be done about it anyways.

Besides, perhaps a writer’s heart needs a spot of scrappiness, a bit more wear and tear on it than most to create something truly good and lasting and worthy?

That’s a fool’s hope, I imagine, but one I will keep.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

No Rust on This Road

Well, back to the road tomorrow. A merry jaunt across Alabama and Florida will preclude this daily blog from gracing your presence Friday. Apologies for that.

As for writing, I’m hoping to enjoy a spot or two of it this weekend… Maybe… Perhaps… Well, at least it’s a possibility which is more than the last ten days have afforded me.

The question is this: if I should happen to trip over a pen and land upon some paper should I try to do some quick and dirty work on The Hushing Days (my 18^th book, perpetually, it seems, lingering in final edits) or should I give something else a go? You know, something that would actually require fresh creativity instead of just following a well-detailed outline?

*sighs*

Most likely it will come to neither. Knowing me, I’ll dabble in this and that and get absolutely no substantial work done on anything. Hopefully, however, my imagination will at least get the opportunity to breathe in some fresh air and shake off some of this staleness.

Have a marvelous Friday, my friends!

Until Saturday…

Chloe

By the Blindfolded Way

Went to my 5 year old nephew’s Christmas program last night. (A frankly amazing little chap, by the way.)

Survived the Christmas program by the hair on my chinny chin chin.  (Not a hair on this chinny chin chin, by the way.)

Realized figuring out my mental peculiarities could be likened to solving a Rubik’s cube blindfolded. (No peeking humanly possible. I’ve tried EVERYTHING… by the way.)

Came across as a fool, no doubt. (A well-tailored fool, for once, by the way)

Exhausted my wee-little brain cells into oblivion and somehow woke up with whiplash. (???, by the way)

Determined I’d do the Christmas program every day for the rest of my life if it meant seeing that little boy shine again like he did last night. (No “by the way” needed here.)

Until tomorrow…

Chloe, the proud Auntie

Sticky Fingers

It is absurdly hard to write a daily writer’s blog when one is not writing. As my role of daughter is currently (and quite rightfully) superseding my role as author, the only time pen comes into contact with paper is for my two blogs.

One of those thorny blessings, this is.

I am pouring a ridiculous amount of time and effort into my new travel/mental health blog.

A ridiculous amount.

Honestly, I have no idea what I’m trying to achieve with the “Tiptoeing Soul,” but my OCD-tendencies have latched onto it with embarrassingly sticky fingers. Admittedly, it is the perfect outlet for scattered free time. Searching for the perfect “writing nook” takes me all over the place. But I fear it is silly. Or at least I should feel it is silly.  But my sticky fingers and I don’t really seem to care.

A ridiculous sentiment, I’m sure.

Oh well. We do what we must to survive the day sane.

Right?

Please, let it be right.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Depository of Misfits

A cored and pitted soul…

Nice, huh? Well, not nice exactly, but good imagery, right? Strong, memorable in a tragic light. Not cliché, but not so far out there that it leaves the readers shaking their heads at the author’s tortuous, overwrought (i.e. ridiculous) efforts. 

But…

It doesn’t really fit here, does it? The narrative voice I’m using for this blog wouldn’t say something like that. No matter the dark beauty of the turn of phrase it doesn’t belong and should be deleted, scratched out, disposed of forthwith.

Your responsibility as an author demands this cruel action. You must do it. Your readers deserve this honesty of voice.

But…

All that doesn’t mean you can’t save “a cored and pitted soul” for later. Seriously. Jot it down in a depository of literary misfits. A list where your best deletions live.

I refer to mine often.

And that, ladies and gents, is my Monday tip to you.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Blindspot of Character

Children have eluded me. (The point that I no longer have a uterus is not the point here at this bloggy junction. Although I am willing to giddily reiterate every reason not to have one if so asked… which I haven’t been… so, just never mind.)

Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the writing of children of a certain age has eluded me? 

Yes. Let’s go with that.

Oh, toddlers and tots up to the age of ten, pushing eleven even, I can pull off rather delightfully. It is their older siblings, the teenaged ones, that scare the living bejeezus out of me.

With my forte being “quirky” characters, you would think the odd creature dubbed teen would be a natural fit for me. You would think wrong.

So, I avoid them like the plague, crafting multi-generational sagas without a single 12 to 16 year old. (Apparently, my age of writing consent is 17. Don’t ask. I have no idea.)

Bottom line: Every writer’s got a blindspot of character. This would be mine.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Dante's Ink

As book #18 lingers in final edits, I tried to write something new, refreshing and poppy yesterday. 

Just something to keep my pen in the inkwell, as it were.

Well…

*hems and haws*

Um…

*haws and hems*

Don’t.

Never try to write something new, refreshing and poppy. At least not when you’re me on a Thanksgiving holiday. My effort turned out rather Dante-esque… hellish, in many respects.

Shall I share?

Sure, why the heck not.

“There is a bright spot, mind you. It’s just up ahead. Whether it be a sun cracking the dawn or a train thundering near in the tunnel, there is a light. Keep your eyes on it. Don’t blink.

It’s blinding, yes. Tears will well. Your heart will hammer. But stay the course. Stay. The. Course.

On either side of you, behind and below, a darkness quakes and bellows. Worse yet, the shadows writhe in carnality…”

Rather “Tales from the Darkside,” don’t you think?

*shivers at the freakishness*

Not going there again, trust me.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Under the Rocker

It’s one of those days when I want to crawl into one of my manuscripts, tuck my head under the hero’s chin and snuggle until the day goes blessedly away.

I’m as nervous as long-tailed cat curled under a rocking chair... a rocking chair with a five year old in the driver’s seat… with a plate full of sugar cookies on his lap.

That said, I will leave you to your Friday.

Until tomorrow (when hopefully a less twitchy psyche will prevail)…

Chloe