"Out, damn'd spot! Out, I say!"

As my muse and I tootled across the Southeast yesterday in a 9 ½ hour drive, we were entertained by the Italian composer Verdi and his many, many operas. While “Rigoletto” took up the bulk of our time, the old imagination took an especial liking to “Macbeth” and to the character of Lady Macbeth, in particular.

“Out, damn’d spot! Out, I say!” the sleepwalking conspirator pleads as she tries to wipe the murdered King Duncan’s blood from her hands.

While likening one’s self to Lady Macbeth is rarely a good thing, I did find a bit of camaraderie with the old girl.

The finished-yet-unfinished The Hushing Days (my 18^th novel) has been plaguing me for a year now. Just as Mrs. Macbeth thought murdering dear Duncan was a good idea at the beginning of the opera/play, she comes to rue the decision eventually –if only in her tortured sleep-, I have reached the point of rue with The Hushing Days.

Unlike the Lady, however, I do not regret the act itself. I am haunted instead by the act’s incompleteness.

The Hushing Days final edits have become a “bloody” spot on my consciousness. They must, MUST come out!

And, of course, the only way to get the tiresome spot out is to finish the bloody thing… so that is what I’m going to do.

I am giving myself three weeks, and not a heartbeat longer, to finish the edits entirely.  I have enough demons to face in my sleep, I do not need an 18^th century historical romance joining the conga line.

Three weeks, ladies and gentlemen.

Three weeks starting right bloody now!

Until tomorrow…

Chloe 

Size Matters

Length for length’s sake is not good.

If a tale can be told well in 45k words, it should be told in 45k words.

Bulking up a sex scene to absurd duration just to meet your publisher’s 50k wish is not worth it. Trust me on this. Even the most voracious of your readers will tire of manhood grappling, bosom nuzzling, derriere pinching/spanking/biting/etc. if they are all piled on top of each other in a single horny romp.

If you must find that extra 5k somewhere, add an entirely new scene.

Remember: when it comes to sex scenes, no matter what they say, bigger is not always better.

Until Monday (another travel day tomorrow, I’m afraid)…

Chloe

Post-note: I still struggle with this. In fact, I’ve been known to cover up the handy-dandy word counter with a post-it note while writing. Only once I’m thoroughly happy with the scene will I peek.

False Front Carpentry

When deciding whether to embark upon a contemporary or historical romance writing project please consider your feelings toward False Front Carpentry.

Contemporary romances can be set up with little more than plywood scraps and well-placed drapery. Your readers will most likely be able to identify with most physical locations, i.e. airports, big cities, ranches, small towns, condos, houses, apartments, department stores, churches, highways, etc. Just say the word and their minds will automatically fill in the majority of the details for you. You’re simply responsible for the peculiarities of place… usually a quick hammer and saw job of words.

Historical romances, on the other hand, can require associate degrees in Façade Management. Not only must you create false fronts to places foreign to most modern minds (i.e. grist mills, collieries, millinery shops, outposts, forts and the like), you must construct entire rooms in which to host your audience. They will need to be invited “in” to truly experience your story… Planning to camp out at the local lumberyard for a few weeks might be ideal.

Choose wisely, my friends, and you’ll enjoy your literary journey all the more.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Slow Going

Slushing through a slowly melting icefield in nothing but knickers and flip-flops has got to be more enjoyable than editing an historical romance.

Seriously.

I’ve reached the point in The Hushing Days (the behemoth juggernaut that is my 18^th novel) in which “enjoyment in the writing process” is just a faint memory.

I hate that.

Really, it just makes me sick.

The end is in sight, but in only flip-flops and knickers the going is slow and leaves me in shivers.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Lisp

Evading a spiteful spit of tornadoes in the wee hours of the morning is conducive to little except dodgy sanity…

*pauses, reviews the mouthful of wordy words just spat and reconsiders*

Dodgy sanity and thesaurus lisp, I should say.

Neither one of us need suffer through this, I believe.

Good day.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

When Creativity Recedes

Which comes first to an author, the role or the actor?

Better yet, in fiction writing should a difference even be made?

Everyone has seen a movie where the actor was simply wrong for a juicy, well-penned part. Daryl Hannah in Wall Street, Sofia Coppola in Godfather Part III to name just two cases of bad casting.

Equally frequent is the case of a great talent being wasted on a crap part. Take any of the A-list actors in the Aiport movies of the 70’s as cases in point.

But is there such a divide in an author’s mind when writing fiction? If not, should there be?

Questions to ponder when the creative juices recede and the remains of Philosophy 101 crack the surface.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: This piece of dry rot came to me at 2:00 this morning. The corpses of college classes are particularly troublesome on the far side of midnight.

Pulp & Shrouds

A coat of porcupine quills?

Or a shroud of razor wire?

Neither and both, I suppose.

It could be so, so much worse, but the chronic awkwardness I wear every day certainly feels to me as painful and cutting as both these over-exaggerations.

Most days I pretend it doesn’t bother me at all. Somedays the ill-fitted-ness of me is simply crushing.

Today is someday, I confess.

*sighs… straightens the collar of the quill coat, trying to look sharp and brave in all my imagined pokiness… smiles stubbornly*  

Apologies.

This stupidity will pass, too; and tomorrow will be a better day.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: Mental illness sometimes tackles creativity to the ground and beats it to a bloody, unrecognizable pulp. 

Extractor

Few are as tempted as I by an extractor.

Not some computer-y thing.

Not a dentistry nightmare.

Not a Navy SEAL with particularly stealthy components (although I would never turn away a Navy SEAL and any of his fine components).

I am simply wistful for a studious, ambitious, detail-oriented soul to kindly extract a single character from my nearly complete manuscript. Although this character is rather intricately involved in almost every storyline, she and I just don’t gel. There is no affinity between us. There is no “je ne sais quoi.”

Kindly remove her at once, Mr. Extractor and there will be a cookie and kisses for you… particularly if you have a little of that SEAL-thing going on.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Art of Comfort

Even though 85k words are written, even though I’m sloshing hip-deep through final edits, I still worry (incessantly, obsessively, ridiculously) if I’ve chosen the right writing style for book #18.

Yeah, dumb. I know.

Anyhow, here’s my latest method of getting through that. I call it the Pasta Method.

While the majority of my previous novels could be likened to light, fresh, chilled pasta salads chocked full of colorful cherry tomatoes, crisp greens, crunchy nuts and an airy lemon-kissed vinaigrette, The Hushing Days is not.

This does not make the book bad, it only makes it different. It addresses a different kind of hunger.

Sometimes we want a warm, comforting dish. We want beefy morsels stewed for hours on the stove. We want chunky vegetables muted by time and steady heat. We need dark, rich tomatoes steeped in red wine… This is The Hushing Days.

Or so I hope.

A silly thought, I know, but one that brings my roiling stomach a bit of comfort.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Hiccups of Mirth

I suffer from hiccups of mirth.

Strange bubblings of giddiness appear at the oddest of things.

For instance, when I stumble upon a word I never remember using before in my own writing, I giggle. The find doesn’t have to be extraordinary; in fact, it’s most often not. For example, last night, it was the word “hounded” that sent a bloody good buzz through the veins.

It’s the silliest but briefest of highs, but, man, is it good!

Yes, my name is Chloe Stowe, and I hump words.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe 

Outside the Brown Paper Bag

Pardon the bag over my head.

The plain paper brown-ness of it is much better than what’s underneath I assure you. After five hours of phone-based red tape yesterday, the ugly is simply beyond words.

Also beyond words was The Hushing Days. Surprisingly, curled up in a fetal position, face pressed into the back cushion, panic nibbling at the back of the eyeballs isn’t the most ideal position in which to write.

My life is stupid.

Have a nice day outside the bag, everyone.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Dashboard Hijinks

There’s all kinds of nonsense on my writer’s dashboard. Little lights and tiny pings that alert me to terrible literary no-no’s I’m approaching at reckless speed.

Such as the bloody red PASSIVE warning that used to blink interminably at me but now just flickers occasionally.

Such as the lemony yellow smiley face that pops up and jingles pleasantly whenever I leave a dangling participle about.

Or the siren-like wale of an impending run-on.

When writing an 18^th century historical novel a particularly hateful, chartreuse-tinted exclamation point flashes whenever a contraction is used in dialogue. I loathe this chartreuse-ness. In fact, in the last few weeks of edits, I may have possibly, perhaps have punched its little light out entirely.

Just saying.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Blunt Edge

The Chapter Nine edits of The Hushing Days are essentially done. One wee paragraph at the end still needs tending to but that is for an entirely different character flow. Yes, I’ve reached the point where I must slip into each of the ensemble cast’s guises to work through each of the three storylines. That sounds a lot more complicated and convoluted than it really is, I promise you. Anyhow, it’s off to Chapter Ten today…

Well, that was an incredibly boring post.

Essentially pointless.

Blunt to the edge of dull.

Oh, who am I kidding? Consider this a selfie, wince in pity and move on.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

A Hooded Return

I am back home but thoroughly exhausted from being personable.

While a nut masquerading as a tea cake is worthy of Mother Goose-hood (a charming yet dark nursery rhyme, no doubt, located in the back of volume XVII, appendix B), it is not a wholly livable situation. In fact, a week of it was nearly entirely too much.

So, I will dive back into The Hushing Days today and try to soothe my sore nut-hood.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Three Years

Three years ago today, my uterus was carved out of my body and disposed of, I hope, in some ghastly manner befitting the staunch troublemaker it was.

Life has been inestimably better since saying goodbye to ol’ Ute. So, today I raise a glass to the empty spot in my abdominal cavity and thank the good Lord for the void.  

Until Monday…

Chloe

Post-note: Travel day tomorrow. May your Sundays all treat you well, my friends.

Beautifully Bullish

I was granted three glorious (and entirely unexpected) hours of writing time yesterday.

It was, frankly, beautiful.

Not only was I able to immerse myself in the cozy familiarity of the written word (a world entirely more welcoming to me than anything spoken), I actually got an impressive amount of work done on the Chapter Nine edits of The Hushing Days.

Talk about relief.

Yes, writing is my crutch. Deal with it or get out of my way.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: Apologies. Feeling kind of bullish today.   

A Pickling

Liken me to a chicken on a chain, if you will.

A tempest in a leaky teacup.

A Mad Hatter sans chapeau.

Or just picture me as an author jarred and pickled in a house of typewriters and you’ll have me.

*sighs, oh-so pitifully*

A writer without the opportunity to write can be quite a grotesque thing, wouldn’t you agree?

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Four Days

Please, everyone, check your shoes.

I seem to have misplaced my patience and I don’t need it traipsing out of here on the bottom of someone’s Nikes.

Thank you.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: Four days of no writing and counting.  

Blue Balled

Raise your hand if your muse came back from the groomer yesterday looking like a Serbian tennis player.

I’m serious.

If your furry, four-legged muse now sports a remarkable resemblance to Novak Djokovic, please stick an appropriate appendage up in the air and wave it really, really hard.

*waits patiently… waits patiently…*

Ok, that was no help whatsoever. Thanks. Really. Somebody could have at least pretended. A well-meaning fib goes a long way in this world, you know?

Great. Now, I’m endorsing sin… Hmm, maybe the moral decay of society is based directly on the lack of personal writing time each day?

Ok, Novak and I are out of here before I start drafting a thesis.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Void

As predicted, here I am at a truly odd hour for me. Not only is the state of the clock a little cockeyed, there is a four-legged, furry, muse-sized hole by my side. (Grooming days are harder on me than her, I fear.)

Anyhow, I have once again survived my travels…  only to arrive in a land woefully barren of writing opportunities. Why “real life” can’t come with three-hour pockets of uninterrupted “let’s make believe” time is beyond perplexing.

All that said, I’m hoping to squeeze in a little bit of pen and paper action tomorrow. Keep your fingers crossed. (Another day of a writing-less writing blog nobody wants, I assure you.)

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Tripping

The muse and I hit the road again tomorrow; therefore…

1.) No blog on Sunday.

2.) Postings of the blog Monday thru next Saturday will be erratic in their timing. They should all 

happen but good luck to you guessing the hour.

3.) The Hushing Days will once again be tied to the backburner. I don’t suppose the manuscript will be very happy about this. Expect piteous cries.

Until Monday…

Chloe

Artistic Sacrifices

As the laborious editing of my 18^th novel continues, I have come to regard each of the book’s twenty-odd chapters as characters all their own.

You see, in my mind, final edits should simply be a case of dolling scenes/chapters/etc. up. You know, making them look good for company (i.e. agents, publishers, and the like).

For instance…

Chapter Fourteen had to rock its hound-dog appearance.

Chapter Eight will be decked out in the finest party duds.

Chapter Nine is sporting a parka and mukluks.

And the Prologue went 18^th century Twiggy.

When all these fine “characters” come together, it will hopefully be one heck of a party. A shindig any reader would feel happy to lose a night to.

Bottom line: Do whatever works for you to get the darn book done… even if it means playing a little dress-up.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

It's All Fine

Just to be clear (and one must always try to be sparkling clear about such things or psychiatrists make even more furious little scribbles in their notebooks about you), the new meds are not working.

Not one iota.

Not a smidge, not a skoch, not a wee little bit.

My obsessive worry about patently unworriable things is just as keen as ever.

Tomorrow will be my last day on this trial run. Therefore, tomorrow will be my last day of popping that particular pill.

Good.

Well, not good exactly, but it’s all fine. I’ve been living this way for twenty-odd years, let’s give another twenty a go.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Drastic Measures

As my editing of The Hushing Days has reached a vexing bipolar stage (where despair morphs into glee at the drop of an ill-placed prepositional phrase) I am mixing things up a bit today. Oh, the edits will still have plenty of manic-depressive hours to whittle away at my sanity this day, I just plan to intersperse a spot of chili-making into the yo-yoing process.

Yes, chili-making.

Onions, carrots, peppers, adobo sauce, beef and three kinds of beans will all be called into duty. My Dutch Oven stands at the ready. Cumin and oregano are locked and loaded. My whole arsenal of culinary talents are being drafted into action to prove to myself and all that Chloe Stowe can do something sane, right and good!

*pauses, reads over the post, winces*

The utter silliness of my life stuns even me sometimes.  

Until tomorrow…

Chloe 

The Honey Directive

If I ever, ever get it in my fool head again to write a story about six brothers instead of let’s say the manageable two or three, please slap me silly.

Lock me in a cupboard amongst the canned peas.

Tackle me to the floor and bind my fingers together with gorilla glue.

Wrestle me into a hoop skirt and stuff me up the chimney.

Tie me to a tree in the front yard, slather me with honey and call in the bees.  

Whatever it takes, just stop me!

Thank you.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Lonely Years

Every blog this old in the tooth (we’re on our 3^rd year now of daily posts) should really have a mission statement. Some kind of brief synopsis explaining to the uninitiated why the blogger does blog so devotedly. Nothing fancy, mind you. Just something concise and straight to the point. (No rolling your eyes at that. I can do concise. I can.)

So, as Year Three begins on The Words and Madness here is my mission statement. Fair warning: it may surprise some of you.

Mental illness can be an excruciatingly lonely disease. Most suffer it in silence. The stigma attached to confessing such an illness often seems too damning to bear…

So, this blog hopes to offer company to those quiet ones. A daily, often kooky reminder that there are others flapping about in the crazy waters with you. There is an author by your side, one who finds comfort in babbling about her writing career (the only true normalcy she can find in this life).

Company is this blog’s priority. 

Comfort with the occasional surprised smile is this blog’s hope.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post Note: I feel completely too full of myself right now. Delusions of grandeur, anyone?