A Woolgathering

With the end of the month upon us (and Halloween night awaiting we children of endless youth), I figured a wee-bit of woolgathering might be indulged in.

Before we begin, please remember that next week’s blogs will be, um, flighty in their postings (the business of being a daughter precluding the OCD-happy schedules I prefer). This inconsistency will begin tomorrow as there will be no blog whatsoever. Sorry about that, mates.

Now, on to this month’s hodgepodge!

1.) I bought a crabapple tree on Thursday. Named it “Nantucket.” Planted it yesterday. Pleasantly surprised to find it hadn’t run off screaming into the night this morning. (My neighborhood can be quite a hoot for the unprepared. Craziness abounds in these swamp waters.)

2.) The stark realization that The Hushing Days will probably not be finished until the first of the next year is a hard pill to swallow. I’m trying not to choke on it, but there is a fair amount of wheezing and hacking going on. It’s times like these when I desperately wish I was a better person, less selfish, more grateful. *sighs*

3.) While the Republican party is lambasting the “liberal” media, I’d like to take a moment to thank it. If one is going to lean to one side or another on its reporting, I will take that leftward tilt any day. I much prefer my news pushing acceptance over exclusion. Just saying.

4.) If anybody missed it, my Cubs lost in the NLCS. They lost bad. Oh well, it was a heck of an unexpected ride. Thanks boys! See you guys next year.

5.) Perhaps I should adopt the “Wait ‘til next year” Cubs-fan mantra as a trademarked Chloe Stowe slogan as well? It apparently will be very appropriate for The Hushing Days, at least… Yes, yes, I know. Selfish and still ungrateful. Apologies.

6.) Happy Halloween, my followers!... Now that, my friends, is said with not a scrap of selfishness but a bellyful of grateful.

Until Monday…

Chloe

The Family Tether

When one is tied down by neither significant other nor child, steadily paying job nor prospect of one a soul bows to the wishes of wind.

If I was feeling rather down on myself, I’d liken my situation to that huge NORAD blimp that broke free of its tether this week. Bouncing around Pennsylvania causing momentary annoyance but no lasting, well, anything, I could claim ownership to the same dull, slow mayhem… that is, if I was feeling particularly useless, well-imagined but full of nothing but hot air.

Yes, I could blimp myself right now.

But you know what? I won’t.

I refuse the tag.

I toss it out on its inflated ear and wish it to quickly pop.

So there.

*pauses as audience scratches their heads, their fingers hovering over the “Go Away” buttons on computer or mobile*

While I may not be wife, girlfriend, mother, employee nor income tax paying citizen, I am a daughter and a darn good one at that. It is this role, this beautiful tether, I will be answering to this coming week.

So once again the daily blogs will be sporadic affairs that might appear morning, noon or night. I truly apologize for that.

However, I do not apologize for my family tether. I will rejoice in it… and enjoy the ride over the Pennsylvania countryside.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Absent Are the Words

As I’ve put off the most tedious jobs for The Hushing Days’ final edits, I have found myself eye-deep in descriptors of setting… or what would be descriptors of setting if they ever made the grand leap from head to paper.

While my mind is chocked full of farmhouses, boardinghouses, taverns and prison ships, these places apparently all exist without words.

Set a picture of a house in front of me and ask me to describe it and I’ve got it covered from sunup to sundown and back again. I will go all Dickens on the place and the reader will come out the other side of the paragraph dragging sawdust on their shoes.

Really. I’m quite good.

I’m quite bad, however, at setting imaginary locales to print. I go dumb at the prospect. Worse yet, I go all cliché if forced to put something on the page.

It’s frankly rather ugly… ugly to the point that the $1.03 royalty check I’ll be getting next month seems rather justified.

*sighs*

Bottom line: Every writer is bad at something. Don’t be discouraged when you run into your own ugly. Cringe and carry on, my friends.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Manuscript Form

No preamble required.

No overture called for.

Even a gaunt little prologue would be needless here. The news is simple, quaint and rather grand in my small world.

I, Chloe Stowe, actually got work done yesterday on The Hushing Days!

Oh, it was hardly substantial by my (or any writer’s) normal standard, but it was several hundred words written and several important editing decisions made.

I believe the manuscript actually giggled a little in delight when I touched her. It had been so long I’m surprised she didn’t slap my pen away… (Why my manuscript has suddenly, just now in fact, taken on feminine form in my mind I can only imagine.  Probably in retaliation from yesterday’s post. Ah, well, who knows?)

Anyway, bottom line and all… work was done yesterday, and I and she were glad of it.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Cattiness Query

Must female characters always be catty toward each other?

This is a question I’ve never asked myself before (as writing m/m romance limits the womanly roles to two or three at most). However, writing a mainstream ensemble love story chocked full of ladies has opened my eyes to query.

Now, this question would never have occurred to me even then if we weren’t bombarded by said cattiness in nearly every form of fictional media.

Of course there are noted exceptions to sexually active women cast in this unfavorable light (i.e. “Sex in the City,” etc.) and I don’t mean to poo-poo these fantastic anomalies at all. But the fact (or should 

I say “taint”) remains. Popular, mainstream, pay-you-more-than-a-$100-to-write stories usually rely on this mean-spiritedness between women to provide much of the color of an ensemble tale.

It’s kind of infuriating, isn’t it?

In fact, I’m feeling rather catty about it. *winks*

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Bleeding Center... or... Bad Habit No.1

As I continue to putter through the edits of The Hushing Days (and may I say “putter” is a whole out exaggeration these last few days), I continue to discover bad habits about my authorial self.

Yippee.

Anyhow, here’s the latest. Hope it consoles like-sufferers…

When writing a romance novel, I have the terrible affliction of romanticizing everyone.

I’m not talking about making every character gooey-brained with love. Hardly. If you’re looking for a bad guy, give me a day and I’ll sketch you out the orneriest son-of-a-bitch you’ve ever met. Nope, I can do bad.

And I can do good.

I can even do ambivalent, ambiguous, grey-hearted characters who straddle the line between good and bad with dexterity and style.

However, when it comes to the genuinely unkind, heartless blokes that wouldn’t offer a tissue if you were bleeding out at their kitchen table, I falter.

In my romance novels, everybody has a heart. Be it a foul, blackened ticker or a sugar-encrusted thumper, all my people have one… But, alas, not all people in the world have hearts. Sad truth, that. 

So when I pen a romance, I can’t help but give every poor bloke a bleeding center.

Whether this speaks ill or well of my stories, my muse and I, I have no idea.

*sighs*

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Misconceptions

Buzzing around like flies on a ripe goat, misconceptions about writers are hard to swat down.

For example…

1.) All writers want to pen the “Great American Novel”… Personally, I’d spin you a fine yarn in Finnish for you if the pay was right. Besides, Faulkner, Hemingway and Fitzgerald pretty much have the greatness covered.

2.) All writers are either tortured souls or Jessica Fletcher’s (a la “Murder She Wrote”)… Nope. Not even close. Of course I can only speak for myself but while my crazy issues are indeed life-altering (and not in the good way) by no stretch of imagination do they near waterboarding. As for Ms. Fletcher, the first person who calls me that to my face is getting a small punch in the nose.

3.) All writers are eccentric… Just as eccentric as the next guy. Nothing too terribly special. Just a bloke doing a job.

Now that I’ve gotten that out of my system, I’ll leave you to your Sundays.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Seedy Intentions

There are always seeds rattling around in my pocket. Little specks of storylines I like to plant in the soil of a manuscript’s early chapters.

This is all well and good… when you’re actually writing Chapter One.

However, when the cogs of progress have churned sufficiently to crank the novel into edits, this seed-laying mania is a bit not good.

Case in point: As I’ve reported this week, I have decided to jumpstart the editing of The Hushing 

Days by abandoning the corrections of Chapter Seven and turning my eraser and white-out to the always challenging Chapter One.

So, while I’m editing away at the chapter, adding this and that while marking out a whole bunch of other, I keep finding myself reaching for the seeds in my pocket…

Bad, bad author!

The editing process is not the time to add tangents, side roads or off-shoots.

Plant one seed in Chapter One and you’ll be tending it the whole novel long.

This is not the time, girl!

Or so I keep chiding myself every time I stick another storyline into the ground.

*sighs*

Maybe the 2050 book market will be hungry for a 300K The Hushing Days? One can only hope.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Flattering Form of Failure

Progress is progress.

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

So there.

*pauses to nibble on a hangnail, studiously ignoring the ugly, cloying truth of the matter*

One hundred and fifteen words is progress, darn it! Anytime you leave a manuscript fatter than how you found it, success can be rightfully claimed.

Right?

*nibbles on another hangnail, refusing to acknowledge failure in even its most flattering form*

Needless to say, I hope to do bulkier work on the editing of The Hushing Days today.

*accidentally rips a nail off from a finger, but keeps nibbling furiously anyway*

My air conditioning is out.

Repairmen are coming this afternoon between 2 and 6.

Housework to make the house acceptable to visitors will take most of the morning (seeing as I will be working in conditions approximating an over-achieving sauna).

My nerves will kick in between 5 and 10 minutes after I post this post. Therefore, I’ll be lugging flu-like conditions around in my sauna-like conditions. Therefore, the closest I’ll probably come to The 

Hushing Days today is my bemoaning its neglect in this blog.

So, that one hundred and fifteen words I managed yesterday was indeed a whole boatload of progress compared to what I won’t be doing today.

Like I said, progress is progress.

So, um, there.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Desperation?

Restructuring.

Reorganization.

A little re-imagining of a process tried, true and tested.

All these concepts send shudders through the professional world when a corporate shake-up always means lay-offs for the lower-downs and lesser hours for the higher-ups.

Well, I’m about to re-imagine reorganization!

What does this have to do with writing/editing, you ask?

Simple. I’m shaking up the edits on The Hushing Days. Turning things on its head. Going a little wild and crazy with that staid, stalled process.

I’ve been laboring over Chapter Seven for weeks until I’ve come to essentially despise the poor thing. This is bad.

So, I’ve decided to let Seven rest in peace for a bit, and drag Chapter One onto the old chopping block. This, I hope, is good.

Restructuring.

Reorganization.

Desperation?

Perhaps.

But I’ll let you know if it works, just the same.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Spontaneous Spawn Scenario

With all this galavanting I’ve been doing around the southeast lately, an epic road romance in novel form should spawn from my loins any day now.

Besides two hearts, two hard bodies and a strain of crisp, engaging dialogue, I do hope the little one comes with its own sell copy. Something spicy with a core of angst would be nice.

Until then, know that I have once again returned to the friendly writing confines of my home. For the next month or so, blogs will be morning events once again. Late night postings will be put aside for late night editing on the novel that needs not be named. (One does not poke a sleeping giant… or some other such silly saying. Exhaustion flagged here, my friends.)

So as my muse and I bow to exhaustion, I wish you and yours a good night.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe  

The Popcorn Identity

Let’s just call a bowl of popcorn, a bowl of popcorn, alright?

*pauses from indignant huffing and puffing to realize that a teensy bit of explanation may be needed*

With my specter of imminent failure currently curbside waiting for the next bus out of town, I had a moment for clear, uninterrupted-by-doom-and-gloom thought last night. In this fractional hour of clarity I realized that no matter how much spit and shine, lipstick and glitter you put on a cow, it’s still a gosh-darn cow.

*winces as four-legged, furry muse slaps a paw upside my head for mixing metaphors/analogies/what-the-heck-evers*

Fine. Plain and simple. Here we go…

No matter how hard, how long, how detailed, how immaculately charming, how smoking hot I make 

The Hushing Days, my next novel will still be just a romance.

It will be consumed in one sitting or two. It will be an economically-prudent purchase that will yield an economically-slight profit for publishing house, agent, and me.

Don’t misunderstand me, please. This is not degrading the genre (the genre which has given me the break I’ve worked so hard to find). No, it is only meant as a kick in the butt for me.

I’ve been babying The Hushing Days into perfection… a perfection that will still produce nothing but a bowl of popcorn.

Get over it, Chloe!

Get the gooey-hearted snack out onto the market and move on to the next goodie-to-go!

Yep, a little salty reality is needed here.

*gulps and hugs furry muse close*

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

He Comes

An unwelcome visitor came tapping at my window last evening. (Ok, it was more of a pounding with angry sneers thrown in for color and vile. But me, being one not to complain, will call it tapping and move on with the story.)

After peeling myself off the ceiling, and doing a quick check of Prozac levels in the old noggin, I quickly and sadly realized who my intruder was.

Frank.

My specter of imminent failure.

I hadn’t seen the bloke in ages. His stench had faded from my living room and the crumpets I always keep on hand for his voracious though coiffured appetite had all gone stale and moldy.

Frank.

The bastard was back and making one heck of a racket.

I have no idea why the Sire of Self-Doubt decided to make an appearance last night, but there his grotesqueness was… and me with no crumpets.

*sighs*

Every writer, no matter how weathered, has to deal with the specter of failure barging in from time to time.

There is no barring his entry.

There is only surviving his visit.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

How to Play Truant... Rationally

My complete absence yesterday can be explained quite rationally.

After approximately 8 hours of dragging every known skeleton out of my closet and hanging them crudely in the foyer, I was a willing accomplice to the hiding of body parts in the back yard.

After which, the ghosts of my misdeeds were seated at the dining room table and fed platters of chicken salad and bean dip.

Then, to cap the night off, I played Starsky to my 5 year old nephew’s Hutch at his “Bag o’Bones” Halloween Party. Alas, there was no red, striped Torino involved in the festivities, but a grown woman can’t have everything, I suppose.

Bottom line: I played all freaking day and night and was gleefully truant from all adult responsibilities. I highly recommend this strategy at least once a season… no bones about it.

Until tomorrow…

Starksy (aka Chloe)

Absence

“A lady in waiting” is what I like to call her… that is, when I’m feeling particularly Tudor.

Or I liken her to a fruit ripening to plump perfection on the vine… that is, when I’m feeling particularly hungry.

Of course, I could just acknowledge her seeming abandonment. Mourn the passing of days without her sharp tongue or her fiery faith… but that would be dreadfully depressing and more than a bit morose. Who needs that, right?

So, as Titilayo, my heroine of The Hushing Days, sits idly awaiting her author’s return next week, I am desperately trying to think positive on the situation… you know, “absence makes the heart grow fonder” and all that kind of crap.

*sighs*

Not writing is often harder than writing. How twisted, my friends, is that?

Until tomorrow…

Chloe the Ungrateful Impatient

Defend... Define

Rules are made to be broken.

Snapped like peanut brittle.

Crack!

Unfortunately, newbie authors can’t go all rebel-without-a-cause without paying a hefty price.  Riling the copy editor your first publishing house assigns to you is… well… not to put too sharp a point on it… stupid.

Dumb.

You hear me?

Don’t do it.

However, riling the copy editor your publishing house assigns to you on your fourth or fifth book is good sport.

Remember, you must defend your style.

If you’re a fragmentary queen, don’t be afraid to pull a few short and curlies.

If you’ve got a thing for long, descriptive paragraphs slip one or two into a strong middle chapter and fight like the devil to keep at least one.

Don’t be afraid to be unique.

Don’t be afraid to be you.

Defending your style is an amazing way to define it.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Taste Life. Take Notes.

Writers eat life experiences up like candy. Really, really good candy. The kind you get from sweet shops in Vienna or from your Great Aunt Wilma’s kitchen at Christmas.

Be they good or bad, silly or angsty, an ensemble event or a “me, myself and I” trio, the most experienced of authors not only devour all the emotions this grand old life sends their way, but they record them. Each nuance, each flavor, each bitter or sweet note is filed away for further study and later extrapolation.

Believe it or not, writers don’t actually feel everything they write when they write it.

Case in point: The orgasmic delight of John and Robin’s first time more than likely did not occur in John’s bed but instead in Great Aunt Wilma’s kitchen one dark December night when the diet went out the window and the truffles marched merrily in.

Bottom line: Taste life and take note, my friends.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Backburner Love

The backburner is a terrible place to be.

Alas, most writing projects over 10K that are living and breathing without the driving force of a signed contract to bully them on end up there from time to time.

Life happens and backburners are lit. It’s all part of the creative process. The key is not to despair.

As my next novel The Hushing Days is once again forced to the rear heating element, I thought it appropriate to take a moment to encourage those writers facing the same consternation.

This is not the end of the world. The universe you’ve worked so tirelessly to create in your story will still be there waiting for you.

Novels are incredibly patient creatures. As long as you stir them from time to time and keep the heat under them nice and toasty, your storylines will keep tremendously well at the back of your writing stovetop.

It’s an aggravating but  a wholly viable option in emergencies.

Bottom line: Trust the simmer.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Hither and Yawn and Back Again

Hither and yawn and back again. That was me yesterday. And along that long, long way I had not a smidgeon of time to blog for you. All this hither and yawn-ness was unfortunately also unplanned so I hadn’t even a chance to fire a warning shot to you.

Fear not. I will be digging out the cat o’ nine tails from the back of my closet and lashing myself enthusiastically with it immediately after I “Until tomorrow…” you down below.

Beyond surrendering to my always pesky self-harm issues (i.e. pinching, bruising, scratching, all other crazy trivialities of me), I will try to get some more work done on The Hushing Days edits.

“Try” being the operative word since more hither and yawn-ness looms. So, expect a bit of “up in the air” posting this week, folks. Apologies in advance.

Ok, time to dust off my masochistic gear.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post Note: While I do suffer from self-harm issues, never, EVER have they even approached more than a bothersome level that even my psychiatrist shrugs off as just silly, inconsequential Chloe-ness. So, no worries, kind hearts. I’m A-OK.

Sticky Spots

I’ve arrived at a rather sticky spot in my final editing of The Hushing Days (my newest novel).

This spot of molasses-like goo is officially entitled: “Chapter Seven, Scenes Three thru Five.”

I simply call it Trouble.

Trouble is supposed to be a dynamic interaction of two characters making the harrowing and unplanned jump from friends to lovers. You know, the classic trope of romance novels everywhere.

Plot-wise, it’s solid. Its timing is surprising to the reader but true to the characters.

I’m satisfied with at least 90% of the dialogue. Some of it is, in fact, quite sparkling.

It’s all the in-between stuff that is fly-paper-esque gunk.

*sighs*

I’m s-l-o-w-l-y working through it, but it’s tough-going.

Bottom line: Gummy spots test the mettle of every author. They’re not a reflection on the writer, but a reflection on the craft.

In other words, don’t give up.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe  

Voyeurism

Peeking is allowed.

It may not be spelled out for you in your “Congratulations! You are a Romance Writer” papers, but a wandering eye is permitted.

A look-and-see at other genres (yes, there are other genres) is oftentimes wise.. Keeping an eye on what fads are currently scorching the pages of sci-fi, paranormal, YA or just “vanilla” popular fiction will give you a heads up on the trends the publishing marketing is currently buzzing over.

Use this info.

You may have to be sneaky about it, but you can play on the day’s reading fashion.

For instance, if werewolves were the theme du jour and you are a romance writer who wouldn’t touch paranormal storylines with a ten foot pole, set your love story at a Werewolf Film Festival, or have one of your leads hold a PhD in Late Middle Ages Studies with their “niche” being the Werewolf Witch Trials of the early 15^th century.

Then, sell it.

Sell that connection like it’s going out of style… because it most probably is.

Peek, act, and sell.

Got it?

Good.

Now, get to it.

*winks*

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

5 Things a Writer Must Do... or Maybe Not

A writer must know how to weave a story out of thin air.

A writer must excel at making mountains out of mole hills.

A writer must dazzle at mining gold from old rock.

A writer must delight in connecting the dots on completely blank paper.

A writer should be able to take any life event and sculpt it into something literarily sound… or interesting… or at least useful to reader and world.

Should.

But try as I might, I can’t figure out how to take the total awesomeness of my Cubs winning the Wild Card game last night and manipulate, fold, deconstruct or reconstruct it into anything approaching “authorly.”

My bad.

Really.

…

But Holy Cow, the Cubs won!

What more in the world is there to say than that, man?

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Nosiness Preferred

Scent. It’s a terribly neglected sense.

In romantic fiction particularly it is often relegated to detecting the sandalwood soap the lead male prefers, the strawberry shampoo the lead lady always buys or the musk of a well-sexed room the leads always leave in their conjoined wake.

Forgotten is the smell of lilacs outside a restaurant’s front door. The pop of peppers in the steak au poivre.  The crisp, clean scent of laundry fresh from a dryer.  

Perhaps more understandably also denied is the stench of garbage in a back alley, the clog of car exhaust on a busy city street or the cloying chlorine-calling card a pool always sends ahead of a swim.

When a scene is lacking freshness, novelty or a grunt of reality, don’t forget the sense of scent. After all, it’s as close as the nose on your face.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Heroes are Boring

Romance novels are often littered with heroes.

Yes, littered.

Heroes are such a boring lot to write. Good intentions waving in the air, they swoop in and save the day with style, grace and not a hair out of place.

Boring.

I’d rather deal with scruffy no-gooders who stumble into tough spots and survive by the skin of their teeth. If they happen to drag another poor, trapped soul out of the quagmire with them, so be it. They don’t mind giving a bloke a break, but they’re not going to go out of their way to do it.  

Enter the “Significant Other.”

Equally flawed but often more even-tempered, they are tasked with recognizing the diamonds in the rough. A tough, dirty, frustrating job, the Significant Others put some serious wear on their own tires trying to make their relationships work.

In the end, the Ruffians and the Significant Others are as likely to fall in to each other’s arms due to sheer exhaustion from fighting as from a sense of Disney-like destiny.

This is my formula for writing a romance. Quirky, off-beat but real.

Bottom line: Don’t be afraid to find your own formula. Be imaginative. Be you. It might be quite surprising how well it will work… and sell.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Fool's Errand or Brilliance?

Is a late-in-the-game reimagining of a manuscript’s chapters a fool’s errand or brilliance?

Well?

I certainly don’t know so don’t look at me. I’m the clueless one here who is considering chopping and dicing The Hushing Days’ 20 carefully-structured chapters into 30.

That whole “roundtripping the reader” thing I blogged about several days ago is still itching against my authorly skin. Switching scenes from New York to Philadelphia back to New York in a single chapter of Revolutionary War-era romance is worrying me ragged.

So, I’m staring at the scissors hard, looking for ads for machetes in the paper, and contemplating renting a chipper-shredder for the day.

But…

*worries nervously at nails*

What if less is really more?  What if 20 donuts are indeed more filling than 30-something donut holes? What if…

Yeah, yeah, you get the picture, I’m sure.

Now, I just need the answer before my chainsaw gets cranking.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Sponge of the Thing

My imagination is particularly spongy.

Porous, holey, and welcoming to a most annoying extreme.

Any prose of um, let’s say, 5K+ words in “let me tell you a story” form is sucked up into my brain and processed for style and plot points.

The characters are often kicked out undigested. (I have enough of them already running around my head).

The ending, be it happy or cry-me-a-river, is equally dismissed as inconsequential. (When you negate the characters from the plot who really cares if they live happily ever after or just rot?)

What is not tossed, however, are the mechanics of the piece. All the cogs, wheels, and what-nots churning away to make the story move are what my imagination is hungry for.

For example, let’s turn to our classic Jack-and-Jill-up-the-hill case. My imagination would leave the story munching on how the author constructed the drama. How much emphasis was put on the up-the-hilling? The dynamics of sentence structure (i.e. the long or short of it) would be particularly tasty as well. How much credit is given to the readers? Are they treated like dolts or scholars?

Yep, spongy.

Discriminately spongy.

Take or leave this discourse as you like. I don’t understand either.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Honey Pot

I feel a bit like Pooh who’s gone to the Honey Pot and found no honey.

The Blog Pot is barren this morning.

The crumbs I’m always brushing aside are even missing. (I’m suspecting a mouse, or something equally squinty and pink-nosed that has no place in my Hundred Acre Wood.)

Alas, there’s little to be done about it now. One does what one must in these situations. In this case, please accept a rain check and this Honey Bun.

Please excuse the half-eaten-ness of it but there is a hungry Pooh about so…

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Despite and Even Though

So, it’s been approximately 10 days since I received my unexpected and rather spectacular news (i.e. an important person from a major publishing house reading my work! *squeaks and giggles and bounces just a bit*).

And while I’m still buzzing over the opportunity and what good things it could mean for my career, a downside has arrived. So instead of stoically ignoring it and glossing over it completely, I have decided to share it.

Ready?

Here it goes.

Even though it’s been only 10 days, even though I am well aware that the cogs in the publishing industry churn very slowly with an author not yet their own, even though a thousand things, I am still mortally disappointed every time I check my work email and find it empty.

Isn’t that silly?

Stupid?

Sad to the point of piteous?

It wouldn’t be so bad if my OCD-tendencies hadn’t kicked in and pushed me to checking the darn thing every ten minutes I’m online.

It wouldn’t be so bad if I had more faith in myself and in my writing skill.

It wouldn’t be so bad if I wasn’t a silly, silly human being who still wholeheartedly believes in the occasional fairy tale coming true.

*sighs*

Ok, silly, silly confession over. Time to get back to work.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Airing Out the Backstory

Every story has a backstory. Every character a history.

The question is how much to share of it with your readers?

While your John Doe might have had a lousy childhood with a mother who beat him, an older brother who bullied him and an uncle who dressed as a clown on his off days, how much of that should you throw into your audience’s laps?

You don’t want your backstory to become the story.

In John Doe’s case, I’d definitely reserve some time for his mother issues, but the big brother stuff I’d keep to myself. As for Uncle Bozo, I’d throw him in as a personal aside only. For example: “John supposed he should be more concerned about his eighty-year old neighbor peeking in his windows, but he’d had an uncle with a clown shoe fetish so Mrs. Fitz’s one irregularity hardly made him flinch.”

Bottom line: Dole out the backstory wisely. All dirty laundry should not be aired.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe