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

Would You Follow?

Bucking the tradition of the majority of American bloggers today, I am refraining from all talk of turkeys, cornucopias, Black Fridays and other Thanksgiving madness... But, as an aside, if you must be told to be thankful for something, how genuine can the sentiment truly be? Just saying.

Carrying on.

A writer’s trick I have availed myself of countless times is this… Read your story out loud. No matter if the manuscript is not done. Read whatever you have written. 

Listen to the way the words play together on the tongue. Pay attention to the flow your narrative voice commands. Does your dialogue sound really, truly, honest to goodness true-to-life? Would you roll your eyes if you overheard the conversation in an elevator? Or would you try to listen harder? Perhaps follow the couple off the lift just to hear what is spoken next?

A simple trick, yes, but one of my favorites.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Pandering, Scratching, Clawing

I’m an old hand at railing against mental illness. (Check the scar tissue around my eyes and heart.)

I’m also a reluctant but fair hand at pandering to the beast. (Scratching and clawing against a brick wall gets you nowhere, especially when given the option to simply walk around it and getting on with things.)

However, I am crap at doing either when faced with depression in a loved one.

I’m uber empathetic to it. Can even explain it rationally to myself and other bystanders. But to the one who suffers from it, I can communicate squat,

Impatience with the sufferer (however unfair)…

Fury at the beast (however deserving)…

Both are abundant in me, but neither helps.

Pandering and railing are so much easier.

Who knew?

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Presence

Late, but present…. This will be motto for the next few weeks, I’m afraid.

After two trips to the grocery store, hours elbows-deep in a sausage sourdough dressing (which is just now finally in the oven) and countless gymnastic maneuvers through touchy family dynamics, I am well and properly pooped.

Pooped without a single, solitary word written beyond this here blog.

So, thank you for your constant presence. At least I can take my writer out to play every day here.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Hammer Me Softly

As many of you are aware, when I travel I schmooze with classical music. Mozart and I have had a regular affair these last few months. Operas, chamber music and the like, we’ve had our share of brilliant times (in other words, he being brilliant and I being slack-jawed dumb. I stroked his ego. He stroked my fool. It worked for us, ok?)

Anyhow, as I tootled around the countryside yesterday I took up with a new beau… the classical piano solo.

Yes, he is rather broad, all-encompassing in scope it would seem. But to this former middle school drummer, his foreign nature intrigued me scandalously.

So, I danced with his man Bach and shared a brief kiss with Beethoven (who left me wanting more) before the trip sadly ended.

Why do I share this, you may ask? Because I learned something that translates quite beautifully to the craft of writing…

A harpsichord (the precursor to the piano) made its music by plucking strings. A piano, on the other hand, hammers the strings. Surprisingly, the act of plucking limits the sound the strings make. It can neither be made soft nor loud, for instance. Only hammering allows for this flexibility.

To a writer, words are very much the strings to our craft. Playing with them nicely, plucking them gently, is limiting. We must not be afraid to hammer them sharply, treat them boldly to get the most beauty, the most depth out of our “strings.”

Yeah, silly of me, I know. But what’s a little silliness amongst friends?

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: My travel blog “Tiptoeing Soul” on WordPress has been updated with a second post. My search for the best writing nooks in the world gains shape and form with “The Quirkiness of Place.”  Just in case, you can’t get enough of me. *winks*  https://tiptoeingsoul.wordpress.com/

Crisscrossed

The crisscrossing of the byways and highways of the American South has concluded for the day.

The body is bushed, the mind fried.

In an act of extreme kindness (or is it utter selfishness?) I am not going to force either of us through a real blog attempt.

You’re welcome.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Rusty Cracks

After a day of robust writing on Thursday, I floundered on Friday.

Totally.

I could blame many things for this flopping, including but not limited to:

a.) The smoking of my sewers… Yes, the city actually does that and did that here Friday. While I appreciate their efforts at potential leak management, panic-ridden smut writers just really can’t “get it on” during sewer games.

b.) A travel day lurking ahead… Sunday will once again find me “hop, skip and jump”ing across the region. Being a nervous little twit, anything “upcoming” upsets the psyche. Don’t ask. I have no idea.

c.) Thanksgiving looms… Any holiday revolving solely around eating and socializing is bad news, ok?

Yep, I could drag out any of those reasons and plop them ceremoniously on the altar of good excuses, but I won’t. I fear the truth is something much more embarrassing….

I am out of practice.  Fiction-writing has been put on the backburner so many times these last three months, I’ve simply forgotten how to do it regularly.

This is bad.

Fixable, but very, very bad.

I don’t like being rusty. I don’t like it at all.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Giving Head

I believe I’ve strained something.

Pulled a brain cell.

Sprained a lobe.

Whatever.

Stunning my four-legged, furry muse and myself yesterday, I actually got significant work done on 

The Hushing Days.

Really significant.

Really.

Unfortunately, this little trip into proper productivity has left the old grey matter hurting, aching, sputtering to a near stop. Stringing these few sentences together has taken an hour.

*sighs*

I’m off to ice my head.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Kitchen Sink Delusions

Alright. I’ll admit to the flailing.

I’ll give you there was some railing.

I’ll even own up to chucking a kitchen sink at the bloody issue.

Forget the “Beloved Wife, Mother, etc.” crap. My gravestone will read “Well, at least she tried really, really hard.”

I try gosh-darn it! I give it my all (however inelegantly that may be, i.e. flailing, railing, kitchen sink-chucking). I may be a freaking failure at life, but I’m going out exhausted and thoroughly pooped at trying…

*four-legged, furry muse pops me a good one on the back of the head, her “Geez, that’s enough!” startlingly clear*

Ok, ok, here it is.

Yesterday, I spent the entire day starting a new travel blog.

*silence from the blog auditorium… except for that guy in the third row snickering at the stupidity*

I told you I was thinking about it. I warned you that I had been turning such nonsense around in my head. But you didn’t really think I’d go through with it, did you?

Ha! Fooled ya, right?

Dear readers, you give me too much credit. Common sense is often not within me. Remember, I chuck kitchen sinks.

Anyhow, the whole “Tiptoeing Soul” blog sprung out of yesterday’s post. Take a gander and you’ll see yesterday’s kitchen sink. (https://tiptoeingsoul.wordpress.com/)

Why, oh why, can’t I let things just be?

Until tomorrow…

Chloe, Your Fool

Against the Apothecary's Jar

In a field of white sweet clover sits an apothecary’s jar.

Inside the tightly closed and absurdly lidded glass madly hums a hundred and one bees.

It is late spring and the clover is in bloom.

Furiously the bees pound and writhe against their glass enclosure. Throwing themselves angrily against the clear, unrelenting glass, they give no thought to forewing, hindwing, spiracle or the like. 

They are frantic with hunger. They will gladly sacrifice little parts of themselves for a chance to taste that sweet, sweet clover…

But the glass never breaks.

The bees do.

And slowly, slowly the jar falls silent until all is lost but a dream.

…

Sometimes, living with a chronic mental illness is like this. Placed in the middle of a beautiful, thriving world we cannot reach, we destroy ourselves trying.

I do this.

A lot, actually.

*sighs heartily against the glass*

I need to learn another way.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: Sometimes crap like this just needs to be said. Apologies. 

The Question of TMI

Having to cram unexpected backstory into Chapter One of The Hushing Days.

Pushing, shoving, wheedling, pleading are all measures being deployed. 

Stubbornly, studiously, ignorantly refusing to address the nagging inquiry of when does sound backstory topple into TMI (too much information) for the reader?

Would desperately appreciate a cheat sheet/answer/freaking clue about this.

Soon.

As in, now.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe the Stuffer

"Do or Do Not. There is No Try."

I do try to be good.

A monkish life despite my smut-writing tendencies is testament to both a.) my mental nuttiness (panic disorder, anxiety exasperation, OCD tendencies, PTSD flirtations, and the like) and b.) my general goody-two-shoe-ness.

Yes, I’m an inherently boring person who when given the choice between being good or bad abashedly chooses the good.

So, it is in this “angelic” fervor that I try not to work on Sundays. God says a day of rest is needed and I say okay.

Or at least I try.

Very hard.

But my mind goes a little spasmodic without writing of some sort to occupy it. The old brain needs to latch onto some creative project to save it from spiraling down into “Crap, I’m crazy” mode.

So, yesterday, in my ultimately futile efforts of being restful, I did the following…

1.) Wrote a chunk of a children’s story. No, not young adult. I’m talking young kid… I know, I know. Don’t ask me why. I just know there was an ostrich involved and a toothbrush. Other than that, I haven’t got a clue.

2.) Flirted with the idea of starting a travel blog… Laughable. First, I don’t have the time. Second, what would I call it, “Where the Monks Go To Party”?

3.) Skimmed through calls for submissions again. No particular genre in mind. Just trolling the Want Ads and thinking “Hey, how hard could it be to write a steampunk variation of The Grapes of Wrath?”

So, as you can see, I do try to be good.

Please, oh please, let that mean something.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Cling Hardily to This

Never underestimate the importance of a cheat sheet.

Cling hardily to it.

Secure it in your under-things if you must.

When writing a novel of any kind, it is absolutely vital to keep tabs on all your players. You can be as detailed or as lax as you dare, but jotting down a record of who did what to whom and where is crucial for the sake of your story’s continuity.

It may be boring. It may feel a bit like the tedious school work of yours days past. It may be unintelligible gibberish to all but you, but it is NECESSARY.

Having momentarily misplaced my own cheat sheet for The Hushing Days (a stark 48 hours I twitch at recalling), I know of what I speak.

Take heed, dear writers. Take heed.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Paris

Grief.

Anger.

Paris.

What is there to say beyond this?

Until tomorrow, God be with you all…

Chloe

A Tallow Candle and I

Needing a spot of confidence, a tiny uptick in my authorial can-do spirit, yesterday I lit a tallow candle and descended into my writing vaults… It should be noted that my four-legged, furry muse refused to accompany me. With a look of pure disdain on her fuzzy chin-whiskers she left me to my “rat-killing” and padded away to the couch. Words were had. Miss Hard-Head won, of course, and I and my tallow candle descended alone. (Perhaps my confidence would be in a wee bit better shape if I wasn’t bullied by my 15 pound muse. Just saying.)

Needless to say, I found a whole lot of crap back in the stacks. I fed one god-awful short story to the one-eyed spider leering at me. He didn’t spit it back up. I take that as a win.

Anyhow, I rooted around the piles of dusty, forgotten words until I finally found a couple of stellar though early novel efforts. Even though I couldn’t write a constant point of view to save my life, and some of my sentences were simply tortuous to re-read, I did eventually dig up my confidence in the books’ storylines. They were strong. Really strong. I could tell a darn good story ten years ago. I can tell an even better story today. So, with reclaimed confidence tucked firmly under my arm, I trudged back up into the present, collected my couch potato muse and actually got some work done.

Moral of this story… Don’t be afraid to revisit your past work. It might hold exactly what you’re looking for.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

A Means, Not an End

Too often one mistakes a compass for a destination… Stick with me on this, folks. This could be good.

Case in point #1: Wikipedia. A fine, fine tool that has aided and will continue aid writers the world over. I, myself, would be loath to do without it. But research does not end, should never, ever end at Wikipedia. It is a resource that points you in the direction your researching, curious self should go. Jot down the coordinates (info) it gives you and then pack your bags and head for the coordinates yourself. Wikipedia is not an end. It is a means.

Case in point #2: Churches. A tremendous place to find like-minded people and life-sharpening guide. Politics and cliques aside, a brick and mortar church has led to the salvation of a gazillion or more brilliant but scarred souls. But a church no matter how grand or sincere can not actually save a soul. That’s God’s job. He’s the savior, not the church council. A church points the way, sometimes it will even take you to God’s doorstep, but in the end you yourself have to walk into His arms.

There.

Self-righteous preaching from the Wikipedia-loving sinner over.

Fit of sanctimonious pique done.

Thank you for your patience.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Perseverance

I’ve apparently lost my giddy somewhere.

Would you please check under your couch? Perhaps, a quick check behind your closet door as well?

There’s no mistaking it, my giddy. It’s sunbeam bright and giggles inordinately. It’s a lovely toasty yellow and bounces and jiggles like a slightly plastered loon if poked just right.

Hmm.

I thought I’d left it under The Hushing Days edits. But now that I’ve somehow managed a brief return (10 days) to the task, I can’t find my giddy anywhere.

There should be jubilation. At least a wee-sense of Whoopee! But I’ve found nothing but a bone-weary sigh.

The mountains of work still needed to be done on the manuscript is frankly rather gruesome. It will take ten days just to gather the gear I’ll need to tackle the thing. Honestly, it is rather discouraging.

Perhaps my giddy had the right idea running off and hiding?

If I was a lesser person (i.e. smarter, less stubborn, a teensy bit rational when it comes to these things) I’d pack my muse up and join my joy wherever its bright little butt may be.

But, as you should know by now, I’m a sucker for persevering.

So, here my muse and I will make a stand against The Hushing Days’ edits! Here we will bravely battle on without my sweet giddy!...

But if you happen to find my childish enthusiasm beaming in your pocket, would you please ask it to come home now?

Until tomorrow…

Chloe 

Formulaic Genius? Indeed.

After a day of tootling through the southeastern countryside listening to five hours of Mozart’s greatest, I’ve come to a few conclusions. Please, pull up a chair and I’ll share.

1.) The kid was freaking brilliant. Really. Even to tin-eared me, his compositions were masterful.

2.) Classical music is to song just as calculus is to math. To those not “in the know,” it breeds fright, harrowing applause and nauseous bows upon completion. Even to those “in the know,” a little jaw-dragging is allowed.

3.) Since there are “formulas” to create sonatas, rondos, and minuet-trios, surely there must be some kind of like system to write romances, mysteries and high-brow literary fare. Right? Just plug in a John here and a Jane there, vary a trope and throw in one heck of a finale and you’ve got yourself a classic whatever novel.

4.) Too many hours behind the wheel makes my brain ooze stupid. Please pardon number 3.

In fact, a pardon request for this entire post may well be in order. Apologies, dear ones.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Courtship of Writer and Tale

Choosing a new writing project is much like a courtship, an old fashioned one with handholding being tremendously forward and walking in step being fantastically heart-fluttering…

Or at least that’s how I like to approach it.

Respect is key. The story is its own, is shaped by its own boundaries, marred by its own shortcomings and enhanced by its own sweet surprises.

An author simply asks to join it on a stroll in the twilight-tinted garden.

Eventually wordsmith or tale might indeed ask for dalliance to turn affair, but just as likely either may not, simply choosing to bid adieu when the moon makes its first shy appearance.

So many stories, so many characters, so many settings have wandered my way over the years; so many strolls have been taken; so many adieus have been bid… It all could be seen as rather sad. But instead of mourning projects that for some reason or other simply didn’t work out, I try to record each brief dalliance down in my memory in hopes of returning to it one twilight-tinted evening… on an unexpected dusk between The Hushing Days.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: In other words, I am still looking for a project to fill my imagination’s time before I can return to the final editing of my 18^th novel, The Hushing Days. As you can see by this self-indulgent post, my imagination is in desperate need of a flirtation. So sorry.

Post-Fight

The hangover has begun… and just as always there’s been no party.

How inordinately unfair is that? I mean really. Beleaguered with a chronic panic disorder, humbled by squirmy anxiety up to my eyeballs and further weirded out by OCD-issues even my psychiatrist chooses not to touch with a ten foot pole, you’d think some kind of a break would have been earned. 

Not a big break. Oh, no. Just a little lessening of the mental acrobats required to survive a day would do.

Fine. Throw me in a cage with three mental illnesses. It might be messy, it certainly will be ugly but I will crawl out of there breathing.

But when I do manage to ungracefully drag myself out of there, it would be nice not to have the floor cave in on me.

Yep. I’m currently “enjoying” a little time in the basement of complete and utter exhaustion.

Limp noodle time.

Bad, bad blogging day.

Apologies for this effort.

Tomorrow should be a travel day which means no post. Enjoy the break. You’ve certainly earned it if you’ve read this far.

Until Monday…

Chloe

Survival Ain't Pretty

Well, I fumbled through yesterday like a real champ. Embarrassing myself only a handful of times, turning a ghastly shade of pink only once and playing the dithering idiot slightly less than a dozen, I did indeed survive. Unfortunately, survival is often ugly… that’s something they never tell you, isn’t it?

The psychiatrically compromised, shall we say, rarely emerge from the fiery battle riding a white steed and holding the flag of lunacy high and proud.

Nope.

Picture us instead leading a lame donkey out of the fog of war, muddied to our armpits, dazed, confused and sodding useless until we stop quaking like a leaf and have a proper nap.

But make no mistake, our sense of triumph is indeed there…. The fact that we must drag it out of the bloody battle in the form of a battered ass is only apropos.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe and her scuffed-up mule

Hiding

Despite all plans to be reckless and daring with my writing career yesterday, I found myself wedged behind an old couch in the basement hiding from Spielberg-ian aliens.

…

Ok. Not really. But in my screwy head it sure felt like I was playing Dakota Fanning to my furry muse’s Tom Cruise. (“War of the Worlds” reference here, folks. I haven’t totally lost it yet.)

Unstable, twitchy me was left in charge of housesitting for my parents during bathroom demolition.., um, I mean, renovation.

*pauses as audience picks themselves up off of the floor after laughing fits*

Yeah. You’d think they’d know better, wouldn’t you?

Oh, well. I did it. Outwardly I even did with style and grace. The workers were great. I was great. 

Everything was peachy keen.

Meanwhile, inside the old crooked noggin, I was a wide-eyed, jittery, on the brink of total mental obliteration mess.

Really.

Unfortunately, no exaggeration there.

*sighs*

So, needless to say, I got no work done, beyond clinging to my sanity, that is.

Today promises much the same. I’ll be lucky to be able to string two words together by tonight.

Stupid, stupid head of mine.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

A Caution to Throw

*carefully wets forefinger, sticks said digit high up in the air and patiently waits for the faintest of breezes*

Little known fact: Throwing caution to the wind takes preparation… and a strong arm.

Yes, I am on the brink of something probably stupid.

I’m indeed teetering on the edge of professional folly.

Despite the well-placed placards in my imagination hamster suite (see yesterday’s post if this is a head-scratcher), I have tentatively decided to consider attempting a try at a quick short story/novella separate and apart from my current career trajectory… and if that isn’t the wimpiest commitment to tomfoolery you’ve ever heard of please review the “declaration” again.

So, in short, I’m thinking of starting a new, brief, writing project to fill the gap until The Hushing Days edits are again possible.

Never mind the fact that if I don’t have the time to edit, I really don’t have the time to create from scratch. Rational thought is overrated.

Now, excuse me. I have a caution to throw.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe 

Keeping Your Imagination Happy

Imagination is much like a hamster.

A caged hamster with one of those funny-looking wheels to be exact.

When the wheel is swiped away and the poor rodent can’t run, no matter how strong its little vermin heart may be the hamster will eventually shrivel up and die… of boredom, most likely.

Not having a writing project to spin my wheels on (as The Hushing Days’ edits are far beyond my time and place at the moment) has left my imagination feeling rather useless.

Did you know a hamster is terrible at twiddling its thumbs? Well, it is. Trust me.

I’m desperately afraid that my little rat-in-cute-clothing will turn mischievous on me.

Perhaps try an escape?

Or worse yet, try building its own makeshift wheel in there. (“Makeshift wheel” equals new short story project there simply isn’t room for… The placards of “You will NOT look at calls for submissions!” I’ve pinned all around its cage have taken up any spare room in the old noggin.)

*sighs, while running maddeningly in place*

Bottom line: A hamster wheel is a terrible thing to waste.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

A Lone Sentence Adrift

Holding patterns are rather torturous concoctions for writers. Despite our propensity towards patience, being relegated to circling the publishing airport is, frankly, hair-pulling agony.

AARGH!!

Pardon the exaggeration. I know of course there are far worse trials for an author to endure. I’m just frustrated and pining a wee-little bit. I do so want to crawl back under the covers with The Hushing 

Days and finished what we’ve spent months and months starting.

Oh well. Enough of the mope. There is some work I can do.

When “circling airports,” I often challenge myself to come up with killer opening lines.  Oh, there doesn’t have to be any story attached. No genre is even required. I simply like to build in my head first-liners that would bowl both publisher and reader over with originality, fire or jaw-dropping beauty.

I’ve come up with some humdingers over the years. I’ve even had a short story published in a literary magazine that started out as nothing but a lone sentence adrift in the skies.

So, soldier on, my friends. Even when your creative circumstances are less than ideal, there is still work to be done…

Just keep reminding me of that, please.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe