What-Not's and Waits

As March has scurried to an end far quicker than I had realized, it is time to scrape together all the little tidbits that have yet to fit in these daily blogs into an ordered list of What-Not’s and Please-Forgive’s. Enjoy the chaos, everyone!

1.) One of my original “Six Brothers” in The Hushing Days manuscript is toying with the chopping block. No, it’s not Leo, the gunsmith. His place is assured simply because I love writing his honey. Miss Fawkes is a veritable hoot to slip into. Alas, young Thackary has eluded me. His role in the carefully scripted drama is minimal, so he would be relatively easy to dismiss… But I do love him so. I will not give the lad up without one heck of a fight.

2.) Baseball season starts Sunday! Cubs fans haven’t seen this kind of excitement for a season to start since, well, last season. Yeah, we’re a little like a pack of Lab puppies always breathlessly excited for their daily walks. Never mind, the raging thunderstorm, the big, scary, garbage truck or the potential that the “Let’s go for a walk!” ploy is simply a method to get us to the vet without messy incident.

3.) Rays fans, on the other hand, are feeling a little adrift this spring. Having lost our manager, GM and a lot of our fan favorites to the reality of small market baseball and the less than fan-friendly confines of the Trop, I think we’re all just floating in limbo-land these days.

4.) Preliminary scouting of my next writing project is going well. Finally. It always takes me a while to find that niche I want to snuggle my muse and I into.

5.) Did I mention that baseball starts in like 5 days!!?... Yeah, I thought I might have noted that.

6.) I’m so far behind in my other penname’s garden blog (“Cora’s Garden”) that it’s really rather criminal. Apologies for that. Slipping on the old, stand-by hair shirt as we speak.

7.) Is it Sunday yet?

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The "Magic Hose" Plot

It wasn’t planned.

Let’s get that out of the way right now. There should be no misconceptions about that.

There should be no “Bravo!”s, no boxes of candies laid adoringly at my feet. Cancel the skywriters and send the Goodyear blimp merrily on its way…

Don’t worry. These admonitions are not for you. They’re for me.

Yeppers. I can get rather full of myself when something really brilliant pops out of my writing process… Alright, maybe “brilliant” is a bit of an overstatement, too. Sorry… “Think meek, Chloe. Think meek.”

Anyhow, before I hurt something trying not to brag, let me tell you about the goody I found.

You know those garden hoses you see advertised on TV that can fit in your pocket? Those that are all shriveled up and prunish until there’s water flowing through and “Whammo!” it’s a full-sized hose?

Well, I’ve got one of those in The Hushing Days.

One of the three major storylines in my historical romance, the storyline that has been patiently waiting in the wings all this time for its time in my authorial spotlight, is a magic hose.

Really.

Since it is a plotline that occurs in a different locale than the rest of the novel, its size, intensity, strength are all variables I can adjust. When I reach that ¾ point in the writing of my mainstream behemoth, I can sit back and objectively look at the novel written so far and see what needs to be added to make the book truly fierce.

Now, the only reason I’m able to do this is because of my “down to the character’s every pore” outline I’ve forced myself to abide by. All the connectors between the major storylines are there just waiting for that magic hose to be attached at the end and “Whammo-ed!” into publishable perfection!

Nope. It wasn’t planned and it probably makes no sense whatsoever to anyone lucky enough to be outside my brain, but this magic hose storyline thing could really catch on…

Hmm, maybe that blimp will be needed after all?

Until tomorrow…

Chloe the Meek Deficient

Correct Change

With my entire imagination and all its dramatic little word minions late for work this morning (I picture them stuck at a toll booth somewhere in my head with nary a one of them having the correct change), I will try my best to soldier on without them….

*pauses*

*consider the ramifications of this plan*

*shivers violently*

On second thought, let’s just go with this:

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post Note: Consider this an act of mercy on my part. I know my limitations quite well, thank you very much. Being a penniless schmuck on the wrong side of a toll booth is one of them.

The Screen Time Wars -or- Characters Feeling Their Oats

Being over halfway done with The Hushing Days and the rest of it outlined down to its very marrow, I was a little surprised yesterday by the shuffling…

And the shoving…

Not to mention the hair-pulling…

And the knees to the groin.

By this time in the creative process, the characters in my Revolutionary War-era drama are pretty much defined. Their personalities have been sketched out with only a few metaphorical freckles and bellybuttons to add.

In short, they are their own people.

And, in short, they should gosh darn know their place in the novel by now!

When I sit down to write, there should be no jockeying for position in front of the “camera.” Tussling over screen time and who should be where in each shot just shouldn’t be happening.

It shouldn’t.

“We’re all professionals here, so let’s start acting like it!” I screamed at some hazy point in the chaos yesterday. (Of course I had to repeat myself three times as the catfight between Willoughby and Easter in front of the makeup trailer had stolen the attention of the whole lot. Petticoats and pattens were flying. I had to duck a muff myself, at one point.)

So, the moral of this posting is this: Be prepared.

No matter how far along you are in the writing of your book, be prepared for the characters to start feeling their oats and start bucking for attention.

My advice?

Act accordingly.

Act loudly.

And duck.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Looking Under the Begonia

(Dealing with both a headache and a dog who decided the household (i.e. me) had to be up and operational at 5:30am. This canine in question is now sound asleep while I am obviously NOT. So, if this post has no redeeming value whatsoever, please blame the dog. Thank you.)

Found myself a bit of an Easter egg yesterday.

No, not the gaily painted, hard-boiled variety left behind by giant bunnies. I’m talking the kind that programmers often hide in their digital wares.

For example, clicking 18 times on the eastern-most begonia in scene 343 of the DragonWars video game will get you a blooper reel from the game designer’s senior prom. We’re talking that kind of value here, folks.

So, I was busy scoping out my next project Thursday, a novel I’m thinking will stick to the same Revolutionary War-era vibe I’ve got going in The Hushing Days, when “Surprise!” I found a sparkling gem of an obscure fact that will make one of my more troublesome Hushing Days’ ladies finally pop from the page.

This is a good thing.

This is an unexpected thing.

No giant bunny could have brought anything better.

Look for Easter eggs wherever you go, dear writers. The big Programmer in the Sky has got them hidden everywhere.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

POST NOTE: The 18-click-begonia-thing is merely a hiccup of my imagination. Again, blame the dog.

Netting the Big "R"

Religion is a tricky scoundrel to net in a romance novel.

Oh there are ways to do it, of course, but short of making it another full-fledged player in the story, it is rather hard to do.

Sure, if you choose to make one of your lead characters a priest/former-priest/priest-wanna-be then his struggle with his religious vows is key in the plotline. No problem there. Just tell the story and the readers will get it.

Or if you are writing in a series particularly targeted to a Christian crowd, per se, then the limitations and extremes are fairly well-defined for you. More than likely you will not turn off a reader by leaning hard on the aspects of the character’s beliefs.

But, if the chosen faiths of the cast are important to the characterization of each person but not necessarily to the whole Romance (Big “R” #1) of the tale, a quandary is often had as to how much religion to include?

An up-and-coming author can rarely afford to alienate a large chunk of their audience. And that is a risk when you linger a little too long or a little too heavily on the whole Religion (Big “R” #2) of the thing.

Writing a novel set in the late Colonial era, a time in which religion was a driving factor in most everybody’s life in some manner or another, I’m finding myself a little unsure about how to address these issues of faith. How much do I include? How much do I turn a blind eye to?

I have no answers here.

Bummer, I know.

But sometimes just asking the question, admitting there is an issue to be discussed is a start, right?

After all, (to circle cleverly back around to the opening analogy), you must admit there is a fish before you can net it.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Spider Web Plots

Beyond the silk ribbons, the heavy-duty worsted yarns and the strands of brightly colored floss, a really good novel usually has at least one more goody weaved into its tapestry.

Guesses, anyone?

(In my case with a furry, four-legged muse constantly on the job, a dog hair or two can be expected in the mix. But since most authors don’t have fuzzy-faced muses with big attitudes and bigger hearts breathing down their necks, we’ll overlook that component for today.)

While I suppose there are many correct answers to the question, my favorite answer is this…

Spider webs.

Frighteningly strong, eerily transparent threads that can disappear into the story with remarkable ease, the Spider Web Plots are the surprises waiting behind the door for your readers.

The antagonist’s storyline does not always have to be obvious. It does not need to be identifiable, nor does it need to offer contrast. Sometimes the best plotline is the one that is not seen until the end, until its spider crawls up on your pretty finished tapestry and sneers a sinister “Boo!”

Keep this in mind while you weave, dear authors.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe  

Homespun -or- Character Spread

I’m sure there is a system.

There’s bound to be some kind of formula a writer can just plug into her manuscript and see if the Character Spread works. If there is, I don’t know it. In fact, I’m not entirely sure the concept of Character Spread exists anywhere outside my own OCD-tainted brain.

While I hold a Master Degree in Art History and a minor in Literature, I have never taken a single Creative Writing course in my life.

Some might dub this a hindrance. I think of it as a strength.

Yes, I may know all the proper terms and proper strategies toward storytelling from an academic standpoint, but my employment of these terms and strategies are entirely homespun. I believe this makes my writing efforts memorable, as quirky as my characters, as dumbfounding as some of my less than successful plots.

In a world that has a gazillion or more authors clamoring for that publishing call, I feel it is very important to be unique. To play within the rules but bring your own bat and ball to the game.

Anyhow, Character Spread is my idea that no major character in a book should go more than two chapters (once introduced) without a significant presence on the page. This might seem like child’s play when you’re working with the traditional one-two punch of a 50k genre romance, but when juggling 6 major characters in two distinct and distant locations things can get a little squirrely…

Or so I think.

But, really, what do I know?

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Properly Shelled

Sunday was productive.

Yes. That’s what I’d like to call it.

Quite literally tons of “administrative” work was done on The Hushing Days. With one of the three chief relationships all written up and fleshed out, I am ready to tackle Couple #2. This lucky pair’s plot has been carefully removed from the story-whole and is ready for some one-on-one time with the author.

This should leave me ecstatic.

Should.

But…

Yesterday was a foul mind day. Indulge me for just a moment and I’ll explain.

Consider the life of an armadillo.

He lugs around a big, unwieldy, leathery shell that protects him from most un-Volkswagen-sized nasties. That’s all well and good, but have you ever considered how much that ugly contraption weighs? Really. Have you ever seen a truly giddy armadillo?

Living with a mental illness is a lot like an armadillo’s life. The shell that we are forced to wear to survive in this world (i.e. Prozac, coping techniques, desperate patience, oftentimes desperate hope) is exhausting to carry around all the time. Really. I’m mentally pooped each and every night of my life.

Well, yesterday, the little armadillo named Chloe flagged exhaustion and crawled out of her carefully-orchestrated shell.

Yep. I didn’t even try to stop the OCD tendencies, the doom brokers, the little hairy beasts of depression from running me over.

Soft little underbelly to the sky, I rolled over sans-shell and said to my mental nasties, “Go ahead, flail away!”

So, that’s what they did.

I worked and worked and worked from pre-dawn to 60 seconds to bedtime, manically attacking this book, the next book, three books thereafter…

*sighs*

It was all rather stupid of me.

I need my shell.  Even though it’s a pain to crawl into every day, there’s a reason I’m an armadillo.

So, the shell is back on this morning. There will be no more flailing by any nasty, thank you very much.

And here ends today’s rather hard-crusted tale.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe in shell

A Feathered Faith

(Metaphors ahead. Prepare yourselves.)

Faith comes in many different feathers.  It is not one simple condor that sweeps you up and carries you to heaven on its back.

No, faith is a flock of birds, each with its own bone structure, wing breadth and song.  For example…

a.) The BIG faith (i.e. God and the ever-after):  Although I’m sure Biblical scholars would argue that this bird should be a dove, my BIG faith is more bald eagle-ish. Elusive at first, but once sighted glorious to behold. I cling to this fellow’s back every day, just closing my eyes and holding on for dear life.

b.) Career path faith: I know I am meant to be a writer. It is as certain to me as the seagulls squawking noisily over the shore. Whenever I start to doubt, I simply need to look toward the sea.

c.) Success faith: Whether or not I will ever succeed financially as a writer is as foreign to me as an Asian Crested Ibis. I’ve seen pretty pictures of this fellow but have as of yet to catch glimpse of him myself. I keep looking though. In fact, I believe my field binoculars have melded with my face. It’s not a pretty picture to be sure, but I and my muse search on.

To end, I’d like to say that I have no idea where this posting came from. I simply started to write and wrote.

Hmm… I fear my stream of consciousness is a little different than most folks’. Apologies for that.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Well-Known Stage

In an ever-so slight continuation from yesterday’s post about writing women, I’d like to announce that finally one of the three female leads in The Hushing Days has reached that wonderful Well-Known Stage.

For those of you lucky enough to exist entirely outside of the inner-workings of my really odd brain, let me explain what I mean by “Well-Known Stage.”

When I reach a point in writing a character where I know what he or she will do in any situation I might plop them into, they become “well-known” to me.

Unsurprising to all, the situations I can invent in my scurrilous little imagination are quite challenging.

Oh, these “scenes” I drop these poor, unsuspecting characters in rarely if ever have anything to do with the novel in which I am writing.

This is by design.

Knowing if these players can exist outside of my story’s parameters, knowing how they would react given any off-the-wall authorial ploy I might lob at them, is the only way a character is deemed “well-known” to me.

For instance…

If I can toss the female lead in my Revolutionary War-era romance into an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie and know she’s been fleshed out enough by me to survive that post-Apocalyptical madness intact, the lady is good to go in my book. Pun intended.

This is all quite possibly nonsense, but I share it just the same. After all, one never knows when a smidgeon of true value can be found amongst the day’s rubbish.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Gender Bias?

(Feeling a little jittery this morning, folks. So please excuse the occasional rattle. I’ll try not to let it go too out of hand. So with a wish of luck to us all, let’s carry on…)

Writing women is hard.

Admittedly this might have more to do with my being out of practice (17 novels in m/m romance will do that to a girl) than the actual degree of difficulty involved, but let’s not bicker about the details. We’ll just accept the statement as fact (consider it a spot of blogger omnipotence, *rolls eyes*) and move on to examining why this is true.

Being a woman myself, I identify with the female persuasion. One would think this would be a help, but it’s not. I have firsthand experience on how complicated, knotted, rationally irrational a gal can be. So I judge my characterizations of the gender VERY hard.

While I can hardly understand myself half the time, I try valiantly to understand each and every motivation of each and every one of my women.

This is lunacy.

Just because we share girl parts, does not mean we share anything else. I could no sooner identify with Aileen Wuornos then I could with Ted Bundy (and I thank the good Lord for that).

Gender bias?

Heck, if I know.

I’ve just got to get over myself, get over my womanhood and become simply a writer again.

Easy as pie, I’m sure.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Leaning Skyward

I have just crossed the halfway point in writing The Hushing Days!

*waits for the confetti to fly, the trumpets to sound, the balloons to fall from the ceiling… and waits….*

*four-legged, furry muse rolls eyes; the impatient “Get on with it, you goof” is unspoken but clear*

Fine. Getting on with it, dear.

It’s funny but I feel I’m much farther along in The Hushing Days. A three-quarters mark seems imminent, if not just popping up in my rearview mirror. In fact, that finish line should be within a long-jumper’s reach.

Hmm… Let’s examine the reasons for that, shall we?

1.) While I’ve only been really writing on the novel since January, I’ve been working on it since last July. The crafting, outlining, selling the idea to my agent, selling the idea to my aforementioned fuzzy muse started in the heat of last summer. With a new summer rounding the corner, it feels very odd to still be working on the same project. (My previous novels averaged 2 ½ months each.)

2.) For the last few weeks, I’ve basically been on cruise control with the book. While the word count has been steadily moving along on pace for a late April finish, there has been a severe lack of wrestling with storylines of late. With every scene, every character’s every move laid out like the blueprint of some freaking skyscraper, my “big picture/grand scheme” tools have been idling… And these guys don’t do idling very well.

3.) To placate said-idlers, I have begun scoping out my next project. Rarely does this scouting happen before the current book is at least three-quarters done. This “already looking to the future” thing is weird, unsettling but kind of cool.

4.) Not only am I crazy, the muse is a little nuts too. Hence time management suffers.

So, while I keep a hopeful eye to the ceiling for balloons, I’ll let you get on with your day.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Fanciful Deconstruction... A Writer's Method

One silk, cornflower blue ribbon has been removed. I lay it gently upon my writing desk, careful not to wrinkle or soil the delicate strand.

A quick glance over to the remaining novel finds it holding together just fine. The strips of rugged, sun-bleached leather and the warm, worsted yarn of deep mahogany seem unbothered by the silk’s absence. I have no idea if this is good or bad so I simply sigh and move on.

The silk now lays before me. All my considerable, OCD attention on this lone storyline.

It is the simplest, the freshest, the brightest of the three love stories in The Hushing Days. It needs little work but a gentle iron. The silk has been neglected for far too long.

So it is with a reverent hand that I begin to work on the ribbon, insuring its color remains true, testing the inner strength of its outer brilliance…

Doesn’t it sound oh-so fanciful?

I have never done such a thing to a novel before. The whole is far greater than its parts, I know. But if the parts are classic, stunning and quite dazzling won’t the whole be served all the better by them?

That is what I hope.

For the last few days, I have removed the storyline of my gunsmith and his young lady love from The Hushing Days and worked on it alone. The novel is so tightly pieced together that the lone plotline’s absence is obviously marked and will be easy to slip back in once it is ready.

Or so I hope.

Hope is a scary thing for a writer.

I’ll keep you updated on this fanciful deconstructing strategy of mine.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Fisticuffs Bird

I have a fisticuffs bird sitting on my left shoulder.

I blame the 1980’s television crime drama.

Alright, maybe a touch of early 90’s fare.

And there is definitely a skoch of late 70’s in there because “Starsky and Hutch” can never, ever be left out.

Let me explain.

As a writer of romance, I find myself always wanting to put some “gritty” action into my little love-nest stories.  For example…

Character A and Character B like one another. There’s a passing attraction (A’s got a great ass and B’s eyes are rather dreamy), but nothing either bloke/lass/whatever-gender-choice would go to great extremes to do anything about. But…

Throw in a car chase (with squealing tires, jumping cars and guns shooting blanks out car windows)…

Toss in a couple of fistfights (that leave everybody breathing hard and sexy but nobody but the bad guys actually bruised and battered)…

And voila!  Characters A and B are now hot and heavy all over one another, vowing to give their last breaths just to make the other smile.

End credits roll.

You may laugh (go ahead and chortle up a lung), but I have to constantly fight not to toss in this gratuitous G-rated violence into my gratuitous X-rated ballads.

Yes, the fisticuffs bird on my left shoulder is strong, my friend.

I blame Stephen J. Cannell, Michael Mann and CBS.

End credits roll.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Tarp Ready

Please, allow me this one final emotional hiccup before getting back to our joint passion of writing.

I felt yesterday’s pity party needed a little cleaning up before it can be put behind us, covered with a tarp and forgotten about like that 9^th grade science project currently rotting in your parents’ garage.

Despite the tenuous state of my Prozac glaze yesterday, Sunday turned out to be a very good day.

In short: I recovered.

It is this recovery; it is this ability to recover that I must focus on.

Years ago, this ability was as foreign to me as a daytrip to Mars. While a Martian weekend is still out of reach, a “Pleasant Valley Sunday” is not.

That is the point.

There. All done. We’re ready for that tarp now.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

State of Glaze

Bear with me on this one.

My Prozac level is the consistency of an egg white glaze this morning and I’m trying really hard not to have it crack and fall off before even the first bite of breakfast is had.

*sighs*

Sometimes keeping it all together in a neat little package appropriate for public consumption is hard.

Chronic panic disorder is hard… (I try really hard to forget that, play act like it’s nothing more than an eccentric walk in the park most days. So when reality nips me in the butt, it stings like a real bitch.)

Sorry.

I’m in a foul, fragile mood. I’d pretend that I wasn’t, but I promised you guys full disclosure when I started this daily blog nearly 15 months ago.

Full disclosure is hard and very, very ugly at times.

Just please, don’t judge me on this post alone.

Until tomorrow (a much better day, I pray)…

Chloe

Filling the Seats

When I start piecing a novel together in my head, I have a habit of using place-markers for the major characters. (Whether this is odd, endearing or useful to you, I’ll let you decide. I’d hold off on all judgments until the end of this post, however. Even I don’t know where these blogs are going until we’re all standing at the end with guppy-faces and sweaty hands.)

For instance, in The Hushing Days I had six brothers whom I knew were going to play major roles throughout the story. Which brothers were going to take the lead in the plot was still to be decided. (This novel is based on a true story of six Scots-Irish brothers during the Revolutionary War, so I wanted to keep that key fact true, no matter the mayhem of having six blank-faced men staring at me, begging for individualities.)

Anyhow, to keep them straight in my head, I assigned an actor to hold each spot. I like to think of it as the folks hired to fill the empty seats at the Oscars when the big guns head to the bathroom. Empty seats equals blank-faces in the weird world of Chloe.

By the time the actual writing of the novel begins, these place-markers are nearly always kicked soundly out of their seats and replaced by the real-deals who look nothing like their thespian mannequins. Only on the rarest of occasion does an actor stick around to play the role. In The Hushing Days, for example, only one of the six brothers still retains its place-marker. (That would be Ozzie, the oldest of the sibling six… but I’ll never tell who’s playing that part in my head.)

In short, because I doubt there’s really been a point to all this rambling, I’ll leave you with this…

Use what works for you however wacky or off-the-wall it may be, i.e. snuggle with whoever makes your writing soul feel good.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Canter, Interrupted

I was fully prepared to write about pace this morning. You know, whether your story clip-clips, canters or bull-rushes along? Yeah, that.

Unfortunately, however, my brain is refusing to budge from its sedentary repose.

Push, prod, cajole, beg, blackmail, threaten off-handedly, threaten on-handedly, whatever I try to get the gray matter up and moving just isn’t working.

Apologies for that.

Tomorrow, there will be flow.

Until then, please just step over this mound of immovable mush and continue on with your day.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Importance of the Momentary Gloat

Please note: I got rather full of myself yesterday.

Puffed myself up quite alarmingly, as a matter of fact. I’m surprised I didn’t pop.

Despite how I may come across in these daily blogs of mine, I am spectacularly unsure of myself as a writer at most times…. Perhaps, I need to correct that? I am unsure of myself as a professionally successful writer. Yes, that’s better.

Oh, I know I can spin a yarn. Even plucking a set of words out of the dictionary and plopping them effectively in print is a “thing” I can do pretty darn well. (Years, and years, and years of trial and error will do that to even the clumsiest word-oaf.)

However, planning out and writing a novel carefully, abiding by a much worried upon outline, relying on the story to naturally give me the word count that is needed, is new for me.

In my previous 50k novels, I rarely had more than 2 months to write them. While a lot of very good writers can crank out a brilliant 2k of words a day, I cannot. At all. So I was constantly feeling rushed, with the “Must reach 50k!” mantra always forefront in my mind.

With The Hushing Days, I have finally reached a place in the creative process where I can trust the story to give me the length the publishers want. I know, really know, if I follow the outline and write each scene to its most powerful the word count will naturally come.

I had never been to that place before. Just realized I was there yesterday. Hence the puff.

I’m going to enjoy this momentary gloat. Might even wriggle around it naked for a while.

Writers, bask in the momentary gloats wherever you may find them. They are magical places to be.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Issue of Steam

No. This is not a posting about…

a.) the gaming platform (which I will sheepishly admit to never hearing about until this morning and a Google search)

b.) the vapor to which water is converted given the proper amount of heat (and that’s as scientific as this girl’s getting)

c.) or Steampunk (a genre which intimidates me to my very core)

So, if there’s anybody left out there, here’s what this blog is about…

a.) sex

b.) sex

c.) sex

It really is as simple as that.

In writing The Hushing Days (my Revolutionary War-era, mainstream romance) the issue of sex has now raised its inquisitive and quite eager head.

Make no mistake, late Colonials certainly had sex (and plenty of it).

However, naked, hot and heavy, “insert A into slot B”, pre-marital “Wham, bam, thank you ma’am” was not an option on the table on the first, second, third dates. It just wasn’t. (Unless there was money exchanged or a certain amount of looseness involved that really doesn’t mesh well with the whole sprawling romance kind of a jive I’m going for in The Hushing Days.)

So, what is an author whose past novels flirted mighty heavily with the erotica-line to do?

My answer? Jack up the boiling point. Just crank up the amount of heat needed to reach that orgasmic boil.

Yeah, ok, I can defy a little science.

No problem.

I failed Chemistry spectacularly my freshman year in college, this should be a piece of cake.

No sweat…

Wait. Sweat is allowed, just not steam, right?

Right!?!

Crap. This might be a teensy bit harder than I first thought.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Literary Lollipops, Aisle Three

These days, I’m finding myself a little like a kid in the candy store with the writing of The Hushing Days.

(Yep. Candy store metaphor/analogy for you today. Embrace the sweet tooth, everyone.)

Allow me to explain.

All the previous novels I have written and had published were in the m/m romance genre… a fantastic genre that accepted me and my quirky characters with open arms. I loved it.

However, its scope was a bit limiting. With 50K words to work with, I had two protagonists, one antagonist and perhaps, maybe, one supporting character I could squish in there…Please liken this to the candy aisle at your local Krogers. An enjoyable selection that a sweet aficionado could live off quite happily for several years, but when you’re in the mood for a Hungarian Szaloncukor, you’re just out of luck.

But…

When you jack up that word count to 70K to 100K and throw in the utterly ginormous tag of “mainstream” to the lot, you’ve got yourself a fully-stocked, top of the line, confectionary store of characters from which to pick and choose.

It’s glorious!

I’ve got supporting characters out the kazoo. Every exotic flavor of protagonist is available. And the supporting character aisle is to die for!

I had no idea.

I believe I may grow portly in this new wonderland of sweets.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post Note: The Szaloncukor are on aisle 11.

Logjam

Expecting a lot out of today’s blog would be a gross over-estimation on your part.

Just saying.

My creative juices seemed to be log-jammed somewhere up river this morning. And seeing as the sunrise is still over an hour away, all dynamite-laden options are out. (My neighbors get tetchy over pre-dawn explosions. Go figure.)

So, before I waste anymore of your time, I will end today’s venture quickly, sending you off to your day with this wee-bit of wisdom…

Logjams happen to the best of writers.  Fret not over the obstruction. The TNT will come. And, oh baby, will the explosion be wild!

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post Note: Warn the neighbors.

My Protagonist, My Stranger

Show of hands everyone. Do you know what’s weird?

(Anybody who has the word “Chloe” on the tips of their tongues can put their hands down right now. Geez.)

The weirdness I speak of is literary in nature.

(See? So minds out of the “She so crazy” gutter, everyone. Thank you.)

As I’m slowly but surely approaching the halfway point in writing The Hushing Days, I’ve come to the stark realization that one of the major characters and I are still virtual strangers.

While I may know the woman’s history inside and out, may understand her motivations, fears and dreams, there is no kinship between us yet. I could pass the woman on the street and not even recognize one of my chief protagonists.

Is this troubling?

I can’t decide.

After all, there is still thousands upon thousands words yet to be written. Plenty of time to the sisterly bonding-thing.

But…

I can’t help wondering if the bonding-thing is necessary to write a successful character?

Hmm.

I’ll have to think on that for a while.

Meanwhile, carry on with your Sundays, my friends.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Handling the Truth

“You can’t handle the truth!” Jack Nicholson roars at Tom Cruise from the witness stand…

And “A Few Good Men’s” iconic soundbite has been born.

I’d like to appropriate this verbal snapshot as mine. Just for this morning. Just for this blog. I’ll give it back to Rob Reiner, et al admittedly thereafter, I promise.

Alright, assuming Mr. Reiner, et all doesn’t give a rat’s behind about this lowly, Prozac-ridden blogger, I’ll carry on. Any stray lawsuits may be sent to the Florida Penitentiary System, in care of Chloe Stowe. (Hint: I’ll be the one in the straitjacket sent up the river on Jury Duty Evasion charges.)

Yep. I got summoned for Jury Duty this week.

Now, a normal person might fuss, fume and perhaps even curse at this ill-luck, but a woman chained to a chronic Panic Disorder, well, panics.

Big time.

As in, colossal freak-out.

Care for an example of what runs through my mind in a freak-out? Here you go…

Oh, I’d show up. Walk unsteadily right up to the sign-in desk and start projectile vomiting over the first civil servant I saw. Seriously. A fetal position maneuver would then follow, leaving me on the floor, hyperventilating/sobbing in my own vomit. Guards would be called. Tasers would be used. The courthouse would shut down. And I’d be sent off to Florida’s version of Sing-Sing for the next twenty years.

Seriously.

And I do mean, seriously.

This is what my brain believes. This is what my normally “Ok for public consumption” mind is honestly terrorizing me with. It would all be rather hilarious if it wasn’t so pitiful and embarrassing.

Don’t worry. This jury duty thing has happened before. The court system is surprisingly ok with excusing a potential juror from showing up if a certified, well-respected psychiatrist sends a “Please excuse this nut” note.

*sighs*

It’s these situations in which I’m confronted head-on with the mental illness that defines so much of my life that sting… that makes me (who tries so hard to pretend everything is “just fine” all the time) want to roar accusingly at myself in the mirror, “You can’t handle the truth!”

Diatribe finished.

Mr. Reiner, you may pick up your soundbite now.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Culling

With The Hushing Days cruising along at a remarkably steady clip these days, the culling of subplots has begun.

It’s an ugly process I’d prefer to face blindfolded and drugged to the gills for. Alas, common sense and creative aptitude are needed in this editorial bloodbath.

Currently on the chopping block is the strained relationship between two of the “minor” brothers. This tangential storyline is not needed to support or even to enhance the main plot.

Keeping it, and all the background shenanigans that go along with it, would mean sacrificing time and space much needed for the story’s big guns.

Cutting it would mean a loss of a very interesting dynamic, one that led me to telling this story.

However, I must bow to the fact that this is being written as a romance, not as a family drama. Admittedly, it’s a small difference. Both genres usually have wide swaths of the other in their plots. One can rarely live without the other.

But when issues of space and plot strength come up, there have to be sacrifices. In this case, the family drama must go…

Or at least be pruned back substantially…

Perhaps trimmed to promote better blooming the next season could be a way of stating it?

Yeah, we’ll go with that one.

So what have we learned today, class?

Answer: a spot of personal delusion often comes with bloody hands.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe