The Rotten Gourd

Rough one, yesterday.

I couldn’t scrape an original turn of phrase out of my head with a pumpkin scoop. Oh, I got plenty of stringy, seedy “things” out of there, but most ended up wadded up in a paper towel in the trash bin.

Finally (and I do mean finally), I dug out a tiny pocket of keepers as dusk settled over the landscape of pumpkin innards.

I share this for two reasons:

1.) Don’t ever give up, writers. Something salvageable might yet be found in the old gourd.

2.) I’m still scraping goop out of the old skull, and I ran out of paper towels ages ago, so… well… yeah. Sorry.

*winks*

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Roundtripping a Reader

Juggling is tough. Good hand-eye coordination is essential in the act. And timing is, well, everything.

I, apparently, suck at juggling.

My newest novel, an ensemble historical romance, is set in two locations at the same time: New York and Philadelphia. To keep all storylines moving at an enjoyable clip, nearly every one of the 20 chapters contains scenes from both locales.

No problem, you say.

I agree. One long distance flight per chapter is an acceptable task to require of an audience. Most don’t mind adding a few frequent flyer miles to their reading accounts. So, as you said, no problem.

However…

Several of my chapters demand roundtrip flights. A chapter starts in New York, does some shopping, brunches in Central Park. Then, it’s off to Philly to catch the Eagles toss around the football for a few hours. Fine and dandy day, right? But what about that Broadway show whose tickets are burning a hole in your pockets? Yeah, can’t waste those, so it’s back to the Big Apple for the nightcap.

Exhausting.

Is this too much to ask of a reader? Or am I not giving my audience enough credit? Am I worrying about nothing?

I don’t know.

Nope, not a darn clue.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

A Fine Line

A fine line must be danced today. Romanced, really… (if you’ll pardon the pun).

The next, great (notice the hard-fought for confidence here) and first totally mainstream romance novel of mine is so close to being done, I could almost weep.

The 80k+ historical behemoth is written and, after months of editorial wrestling,  a quarter of its 20 chapters have made it through final edits.

However, with the prospect of a potential new project suddenly on the horizon with a major publishing house, I no longer have the time to indulge in gentle hand-to-hand combat with The Hushing Days manuscript. I need to get it done. I need to get it done now… or, as soon as “now” I can possibly get.

So, today I return to my writing cocoon with a Halloween deadline in mind. This end date will require a little manhandling, a bit of pushing and shoving of scenes into relative perfection. Of course, I could just fling all the chapters across that editing chasm and simply hope they survive in relative readability, but…

I’ve never aimed for just readability in my writing life. And while I never quite get within hands-grasp of perfection, I do insist on trying.

Hence, the fine line dancing on schedule today.

*sighs*

I just hope I’m wearing the proper dancing shoes. Keep your fingers crossed that neither my toes nor my storyline arcs get pinched.  

Until tomorrow…

Chloe 

Hard Work Ahead

Fearing brain rot and the messy leaking of The Hushing Days from my ears, I am taking matters into my own hands. Shaking off the majority of the familial bonds who have unintentionally been cramping my writing style these past four weeks, tomorrow I will be taking this show on the road!

When this blog returns on Monday, expect actual work-related content, i.e. things that might aid a soul through the writing process. Novel notion, right?

So, without wasting anymore of your precious time, I will bid you adieu until Monday… when hardhats, sharpened pencils and iron constitutions will be required.

We’ve got work to do, folks.

Until Monday…

Chloe

Show and Shout

Frankly, I’ve been pretty useless today. Good news will do that to you, I guess.

So, as I’m still celebrating the my tiny but important shot at a major publishing house, I apologize for giving you no more than this today…

Don’t be afraid to laud even your smallest grains of hope to the world. Even if proven a fool at the end, it is your goofily brilliant grin that will be remembered, not the speck of dirt left in your hand.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

A Plain, Brown Package

Wrapped in a tidy little parcel bedecked in nothing more than plain brown paper, a very nice surprise arrived at my work email account yesterday afternoon.

I’ll admit that the unexpected arrival tweaked my curiosity, (wee packages of words, no matter how wee, from your literary agent always gets the blood a-pumping a little faster).

So, with my cardiac system in fine running fiddle, I opened the message and…

Found a potentially colossal opportunity to join a major publishing house!

It is only a possibility of an “in.” There are no guarantees, but…

Someone important in the business will be reading something of mine.

This is good.

This is so very good.

*grins*

Fingers crossed, everybody!

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Meet the Bad

Well, I am flu-shotted.

So, my arm is sore and I’ve got a live virus running amuck in my system. (At this point of this really long day, I have no idea if the whole live virus-thing is scientifically true or urban legend. Furthermore, at this point of this really long day, I really don’t care.)

Needless to say my manuscript still sits untouched in the editing corner. (At this point of this really long day, I’m reasonably sure my manuscript is thanking its lucky little stars that I haven’t had the audacity to touch its precious unedited hide.)

In short, this day has been a gigantic black hole of creativity… full of crap but producing not a darn thing. (Again, not sure of the science behind this statement. Again, don’t care.)

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: Apologies for this post, but I feel a daily writing blog should be an honest reflection of the good and the bad of an authorial life. Meet the bad.

Defensive Writing

Potholes happen. On the road to writing a “Come and buy me!” story, they are an inevitability.

Jagged, unplanned gaps in the creative process are nasty things that can rarely be prevented or predicted. Trying to avoid them, attempting to plan your route around these jarring bumps is useless and time-consuming.

You will hit potholes.

Accept it.

Got it?

Good.

So, what does a writer do?

Defensive driving, baby! Learn it, become one with its tricks, make it second nature. When you hit that inevitable, violent bump react, don’t overreact.

Swerving off to the shoulder, crossing that center lane, or abandoning the trip altogether is NOT NECESSARY. Keep a firm hold on the wheel, keep your gaze straight ahead and motor on.

Got it?

Good.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: This blog was written on a pothole-ridden stretch of my own creativity in which warning lights are currently in use and the side of the road is looking awfully dandy. So with sweaty hands upon the wheel and eyes to the horizon, I post.

The Inequities of Time

Apologies all around.

I failed to blog yesterday.

I had it all written out in my head, punctuation perfected, paragraph breaks properly outfitted. It was magnificent. (In my head, many, many things are magnificent.)

Alas, a change of familial plans negated the entire blog-line.

Poof!

So, poof! went the post as well. It was late. I was cranky. And nobody should be made to deal with that combo.

Anyhow, Friday should see a return to a more normal schedule of my daily posting times. If it’s any consolation, The Hushing Days is also suffering these days from my lack of writing focus. The poor manuscript is still quietly writhing in edits. (Listen real carefully and I bet you’ll hear its whimpers.)

But life happens, and, sorrowfully, writers like the rest of humankind have to deal.

*dramatically sighs, as only a poor, tortured and totally sarcastic writer can sigh*

Carry on with your Sunday, my friends.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

A Diatribe Said

“Said.”

It’s a vile, little word. Staid and unmoving, its utter complacency is an ill-timed burp to my writer’s constitution. I’ve spent most of the last five years of my professional novel-spinning life avoiding the four letter abomination like some leperous plague.

It disgusts my creative sensibilities.

It’s simply rather gauche.

…

That said, I’m here to apologize to the tiny word.

While its use in dialogue setting I still find to be trollsome, I have come to realize its utility. Sometimes a character truly does nothing more than “say” something. He doesn’t whisper it, or huff it out, or scream, or beg, or even inquire or demand. Sometimes things are just said.

Simple, short, concise.

Expediency in language is often overlooked in historical romances… and, um, writers’ blogs. And while I’m reluctantly learning to accept that simpler-is-better theory in the former, I refuse to even consider such crap in the latter. Yeah, so sorry.

Bottom line: Even old dogs can learn new tricks, but they’ll only do them when they darn-well feel like it.

Enough said.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Justification

Fright is justified sometimes.

Heck, a little reasonable terror comes along with the whole rationality-thing.

I understand this. I do. Despite my panic disorder which skews, well, everything, I can think rationally about fear. I don’t just throw a handful of Prozac at it and madly flee. I can accept its presence in a healthy life. I’m by no means chummy with it, but I can deal.

However…

Fright still sucks.

My newest novel, The Hushing Days, when it is complete will have taken one year to write.

One year.

Jeepers. That’s scary.

For the last five years, I’ve been writing and publishing an average of four to five novels a year.

This charging into the mainstream historical romance market is terrifying stuff. Deep breaths and long prayers are required, and so is apparently time.

Yep, fright. I’ve got it. And try as it might, I’m just not feeling so healthy about it.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Herculean, I Say

Despite efforts my muse and I would describe as Herculean, The Hushing Days will not be done before the end of this month.

There. I said it.

Somebody write it down. Carve it in stone.  Embroider it on a freaking pillow.

The book will not be done in two weeks.

Phooey, et al.

So, as always, me and mine are readjusting our expectations, shimmying out personal deadline back a few weeks and aiming for a Hushing Days Halloween.

It’s ok. Really. We’re flexible here in the Stowe household. Been called rather gymnastic in our contortions in our day.

Bottom line: Be fluid. Hug the wishy and the washy of the authorial profession. It’s a rare treat in stuffy old career-land.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Plum Bastard

Ah, the bastard idea! How I do love to hate him so.

We writers all know them. The dastardly devil of a storyline, a tangent quite uninvited, the stealthy specter of a novel frolicking in the far corner of your eye. Come on, admit it. You know the troublemaker well.

Usually he pops up at the end of a huge writing project, right when the end is in sight but there’s still a league or two of rough seas ahead to reach it. A stray thought crawls out of the back of your imagination and face-plants itself on your paper.

“Deal with me now or I’m out of here. And, man, how you’ll be kicking yourself when I’m gone,” the promising, completely intoxicating, completely impossible to follow idea for a new writing project croons from flat on his belly.

I dub this fiend the Plum Bastard.

Why, you may ask?

The word “plum” has been needlessly tickling my literary fancy for weeks. I love the way it is formed on the tongue, the fullness of sound of the single syllable, the richness of voice it dictates. “Plum” just begs for a literary short story to be written, but, alas, I cannot answer.

Not now.

Not yet.

So, I dub this beautifully vile creature of an idea the Plum Bastard, giving both the word and my utter frustration a home.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post note: Probably should apologize for this post, but I don’t think I will. I like it. And sometimes that’s enough reason for a thing to be written.  

Writers' Math

Wipe that sweat off your brow, dear ones. No, I’m not talking algebra, geometry, trig or calculus.  Even the concept of addition or subtraction will be out of bounds for this discussion. So everybody take a deep breath and relax.

Everyone good?

Good.

Carrying on.

When editing a manuscript, don’t let the numbers cramp your style. And when I’m talking numbers, I’m not talking word count. Once you’ve called your novel “done” and have moved it to the cutting and pasting desk of your editing room, word count issues should be basically off the table.

So, what numbers am I talking about?

Chapter numbers.

See, I told you. Grade school stuff.

My entire point is simply this: Don’t feel obligated to follow the numbers. Jump around. Skip. Frolic. Start your editing with Chapter Six. Then, be crazy and set your sights on Chapter Fifteen! Don’t worry if Chapter One doesn’t come on your radar until the Epilogue is in your editing rear view mirror.  It’s all good.

Bottom line: Do what works for you. You’re a writer. Embrace the eccentricity.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Stunted Results

Well, I suppose I should feel refreshed. Reinvigorated. Reenergized, even. After a week of lifting not a pen or a finger toward fictional or non-fictional pursuits, I should be raring to go. Really. I should be pumped!

Color me non-pumped.

While the distance from writing I so lauded last week I still believe to be a necessary sin from time to time, the relaxation this is supposed to afford becomes rather stunted when soused wildlife become intimately involved.

Seriously.

During my time cabined in the mountains this last week, the following crashed my holiday…

1.) Drunk raccoon… The juvenile bandit helped himself to the beer and butter portions of my brother-in-law’s barbecuing pursuits. Half an hour later, I found the plastered raccoon sleeping it off on the roof outside the game room’s window. True story.

2.) Live skunk… While this little guy was only spotted down the road from our cabin, the tiny squirt is a bit of a concern when a certain four-legged furry muse must be walked in the vicinity. Thankfully, in the end, no tomato juice baths were required by any party.

3.) Midnight bear wrestling on the deck… I woke up to what sounded like a herd of buffalo marching up and down the deck outside my bedroom window. Being the brave sort that I am, I peeked out the curtains to find four bears visiting. A teenager and his three little sibling cubs had apparently slipped out of their mama’s den and decided to party at our cabin. After a raucous match of wrestling each other to the ground, up against the wall, and nearly through my door, the furry good-timers moved on to wider decks.

So, you see my problem.

*sighs*

No, do not fear the holiday, my friends. Fear the holiday-crashers.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: I kindly left out all description of Godzilla-sized spiders, monster truck-sized grasshoppers and any and all bats. No one should have to deal with such atrocities on a Sunday morning. You’re welcome.

Fear Not the Holiday

A quarter of the way through the first edits of my next manuscript seems an odd time to step away for a wee bit of a vacation, but I am generally odd so…

Anyhow, I am off to the mountains for a week! A cabin deep in the woods calls and my muse and I (along with various other familial assets) shall answer.

I hope to get some good writing done up there, but really who am I kidding? Holidaying with your brilliant five-year old nephew (and his familial assets) is not conducive to literary output.

But…

Distance is important. A writer must step completely away from a project to gain both perspective and insight. For me, this is a terribly difficult thing to do, but for most it’s a little bit of a relief.

So, bottom line, my friends is this… Don’t be afraid to holiday. Your book needs a break from you too.

Until next Sunday…

Chloe

Coloring Outside the Lines

Words are not sacred.

They are not holy.

They do not need to be handled with kid gloves.

Too many times in today’s publishing business, a writer’s creative manipulation of a word’s use is beaten brutally back by well-meaning copy editors. Make no mistake, these editors are only doing the jobs they’ve been hired to do. Not these hard-working folks’ fault, at all.

But…

How many times has an Emily Dickinson been scared off of some healthy experimentation by a crushing round of edits?

How many times has a Charles Dickens faced debilitating backlash for a sentence running long and fanciful?

While I realize there is a time and place for both coloring inside and outside the lines, it is rather sad that new authors must restrain themselves within these black-and-white rules in order to get published.

My advice: Follow the rules. Get published. Get published lots. Then go crazy. Turn a noun into a verb. Flip a verb into an adjective. Fiddle with prefixes and suffixes until new words are born right there on your page. Then, fight for the word with your editor.

If you pick and choose your battles, an established writer can get away with wondrous things.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Lateness Becomes Me

A tawdry list of excuses I could throw at your feet. Alas, they'd all be terribly boring and lend nothing to the writing milieu.

I could employ my rather fearful imagination and deliver to you a tale of wondrous woe.

Or I could simply throw myself down on the pointy end of the truth and admit I simply forgot to blog today.

Go ahead and gasp, my friends. Feel slighted. Wallow in forlorn. I do not blame you.

I will wear my hair shirt well tonight and will learn from the incessant itch. And tomorrow I will return stronger, if a bit more rashy.

Until tomorrow...

Chloe

Balance

Balance is tricky.

You are an author. You are paid (or will be paid) to produce a commercial product available to the general masses. Your work must tap into the rise and sway of public opinion and taste. It must give the consumers what they want, when they want it, in any length or style they desire.

You are a worker bee producing honey. Little else.

But…

You are also a writer. Whether you are paid or not, stories blossom in your head night and day. Putting these adventures down on paper or screen is only a byproduct of your grand imagination. Your opinion and your taste alone color your tales. You tell a story until the story is done. End of story.

You are the queen bee. May the publishing houses bow before you.

Yes, well…

A successful writer must play the role of a go-between worker and queen. A middle man, if you will.

So, find that point of balance and sit on it. Settle into it for the long haul. You’ve got a career to make.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Control

Sex is negotiable.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Unless a romance author is aiming for a particular publishing house, keeping the heat and the duration of the sex scenes adjustable is advisable.

Write what you feel is “right” for your story. Don’t push up the volume or tamp down on the sizzle in your first version of the manuscript. Send out what you believe is the best version of your story. If a publishing house feels the novel has marketable merit but only needs a little heat control, they will tell you. At that point, ride the sex dial in whichever direction you must.

Until then, trust your gut.

Trust it.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Brutalities in My Parlor

Being both gangly and many-legged is a terrible thing for a brain.

Cooping said-mind up for a number of days, not allowing it to stretch its ungodly length in a frenzy of writing is particularly bad.

Make that gray mass twitchy, irritable and perhaps just a little bit rabid and you’re inviting a nightmare event into your sleep parlor.

It’s frankly cinematic the way my mind cracks.

*sighs*

Family visits are wonderful things but the scarcity of writing time they allow can get rather nasty for my sleep.

I have to wear my brain out, figuratively bring it to its Prozac-laden knees, to get it to behave reasonably well over a night.

Family visits preclude such brutal tiring out of the old noodle.

Hence, nightmares with delusions of grandeur.

Why, oh why, can’t normalcy visit my sleep parlor?

Until tomorrow…

Chloe