Last Words

“Look for me in the bee balm.”

The sheer ridiculousness of this statement cannot be overstated here.

I don’t do bees.

Have never done bees.

Purgatory for me would be nothing but bees.

So, for me to ever stand willingly in a stand of bee balm, untangling mutant grape vines from giant purple blooms (aka: bee nip) is the height of absurdity. Utter cuckoo insanity. Straitjacket fodder.

Yeah, well, one guess where I spent my day?

“Look for me in the bee balm,” I’ll cackle endlessly to myself as stern people with very long needles finally drag my nutter of a butt away.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: Needless to say, no writing was done today. Frankly, I’m surprised I’m still verbal. 

The Bloody Spoils of Writing

Pardon this imagery, but…

Picture, if you will, a weathered old tom cat whose long ago lost its tail in some horrific incident involving a chainsaw, moonshine and a soused-to-her-gills granny. Now, this old cat is a mouser, a darn good mouser. He takes pride in his kills and occasionally, just ever so occasionally, drops his ratted booty at your feet to share.

You cringe, throw up just a little bit in your mouth, and then force a smile. “Thank you, Tom. Good murder. But it’s all yours.”

Not satisfied, Old Tom picks up the prized carcass, in lightning speed jumps and spits the dead mouse into your lap.

What are you to do? You love Old Tom, but frankly the ol’ fellow scares you a bit. It’s a healthy fright, one you’ve built a decade’s long relationship around. He occasionally kills for you and you occasionally slip the sweet kitty a bowl of milk. But still, you don’t have the balls to screech and run away from the assassin. Old Tom would catch you. So, again, what do you do?

You poke at the offering a little with a long stick (dropping it off your lap; you’ll burn your jeans later), grit out another grin at your mouser and coo “Let’s get you some cream to go with this, boy.”

End of unpardonable imagery.

Why the heck have I shared this grisly tale with you?

My creativity coming off a killer of a headache is Old Tom.

The dead mouse: my bloody poor writing.  

I’ll leave the rest to you.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Dali Nights

"The Burning Giraffe" by Salvador Dali

A headache derailed all plans yesterday… and after a night full of Dali-esque waking nightmares today’s schedule is iffy at best.

My brain is a terrible place to be sometimes. If my head will allow, I plan to curl up into my writing today and hide.

There will be a travel day sometime soon, so if you don’t see me one morning look for me the next.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Maturity

Maturity rankles.

Oh, I’m not talking about age. (Forty-four is a beautiful age, bested only by forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven, etc., etc.)

I’m talking writing maturity. You know, the point in your career when you can’t pass your own bad writing off as good, even to yourself.

Let’s face it. We all suffer from the occasional stinky writing. Experience doesn’t stop the stink, it just makes it harder to recognize. But when true maturity is reached, your nose crinkles immediately at the stench.

It’s an ugly moment… but you can’t help but be grateful for it.

Yep, it rankles. It rankles bad.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: Still smarting from a bout of particularly foul writing yesterday afternoon. Teach me to try to squeeze a bit of creativity into my week of weed management. 

Defeat is Mine

Well, I did warn you about the screwy posting times possible this week. I suppose not posting at all yesterday qualifies.

*sighs*

Sorry about that. An intergalactic battle between Han Solo and Boba Fett was played out in my parents’ parlor. (FYI: Auntie’s forces suffered a humiliating defeat to a strategic mastermind in the guise of a 5 year old little boy.)

Anyhow, since my last post I have somehow managed to finish the detailed outline for The Clockwise Heart (my return to m/m romance). I’m rather pleased with the result, I must say. (One must take their victories where one can when one’s butt has been left in the Tatooine dust.)

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The "Fruits of Labor" Dodge

In lieu of fussy words, here’s three snapshots of the fruits of my (and mostly my mother’s) labors this steamy June week. (In other words, all creative juices have sweated out of my ears and this is all that’s left… so sorry.)

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Ted

Shall I begin with a bang or a whimper?

While I’ve been yanking weeds out of unforgiving clay soil this week, this question has been buzzing around my head. It’s not a new question. Over the course of writing my dozen or so novels, this simple query has become quite familiar.

In fact, nowadays, I just call him Ted.

Ted always shows up about 10k words into a new book. It doesn’t matter if I’ve got an outline all worked out already or if I’m still free-wheeling the story, Ted shows up at this point and demands a reconsidered answer.

Three out of four times, I answer, “With a bang!” But since I like to throw my readers a curve here and there, I occasionally surprise the heck out of Ted and answer “Let’s go with a whimper.”

Ted is here.

He’s demanding an answer for my new m/m romance The Clockwise Heart.

Yeah, well, the boy’s just going to have to hold his horses. This girl’s got wild violets to yank.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Mystery Enabler

While daughterly duties in parental gardens have taken the forefront this week, literary ruminations have still been petering along. (Wow. That was one mouthful of a sentence. Let’s all pause and shake our heads at its overwrought verbage… Crap. I’m still doing it, aren’t I? Apologies.)

Anyhow, the single POV concept I’m trying out in my newest continues to excite me. I’ve just now realized what a wonderful “Mystery Enabler” the lone view is. Oh, the secrets that can be withheld from the audience until just the right moment are simply scintillating to imagine.

Yes, this will indeed be glorious fun.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Between the Holes

Yesterday, two hundred words of m/m lovin’ were miraculously squeezed into a day of digging holes (four), lugging dirt, potting plants, de-potting plants (don’t ask) and watering a wholly unhealthy ton of tomatoes.

A little applause is deserved, I think.

Thank you.

*smirks*

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Pink Unmentionables

Writing projects tend to bleed into one another. Join me in a laundry analogy.

Put a scarlet red panty into a load of white briefs, what’s coming out of the washing machine? Pink unmentionables.

There is nothing wrong with pink unmentionables. Nothing at all. But it’s nice to be prepared for their arrival on the scene.

When writing two novels at the same time, the same thing happens. While the briefs (in this case, m/m romance) will still be briefs, and the panties (women’s fiction) will still be panties, neither will come out the other end of the process quite the same shade they went into it.

So, prepare for a few pink unmentionables, and you and your two simultaneous projects should be just fine.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Me & Rachmaninoff

After spending the early Saturday hours bopping along the Florida highways to Rachmaninoff (Can one legally “bop” to Rachmaninoff?), the middle Saturday hours being stuck in harrowing, bumper-to-bumper traffic in central Alabama (gridlock caused by trying to the flee the state, no doubt… born in Alabama, such truths are allowed) and the late Saturday hours sleeping off the middle Saturday hours, I am officially pooped and in poor humor.

So, I will force neither mood upon you this Sunday and bid you a fond adieu until Monday.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe 

A Violet Shame

Family beckons… or at least my parents’ yard does. Hence, tomorrow will be a travel day (and no blog) and next week will be one of screwy posting times.

Alas, I will have to tuck my two novels away for a spell. The wild violets call.

Until Sunday…

Chloe

Spinal Tap

Late last night, as my mind wandered here and there, I stumbled over this realization… In all the beaucoup of words I’ve written over the years, I have never once written from the POV of a truly shy person.

I’ve visited the mindset of just about every other trait imaginable but never shyness.

Hmm. I wonder why?

People who know me only casually (and even many who supposedly know me “quite well”) take my awkwardness in social situations as chronic shyness.

Um, wrong.

Really, really, Trump-as-President wrong.

I’m gutsy, bold, daring as all get-out, adventurous and as silly as a kindergartener high on cookies and ice cream. Unfortunately, this panic-thing I’ve got stalking around my brain doesn’t allow me to show it in social situations. Panic sucks the spine right out of my soul and spits it back out at me in bloody, broken pieces. I have to then concentrate so manically on putting it back together that there’s absolutely nothing left of me to concentrate on the person standing in front of me.

Panic leaves me a quivering blob of flesh and embarrassment… the one thing I am not.

Talk about ironic.

So, maybe I don’t write from the POV of truly shy people because I feel so foreign in their skin? Or is it because I’m so freaking tired of being forced into their skin that I don’t want to revisit it in my writing? Who the heck knows?

Ok, enough of the psycho-analyzing crap, I need a cookie.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: I hope this helps someone. I’m not quite sure how it could, but I do hope. 

The Starving Ego

Double-dipping into my writing well has gone ridiculously well these last ten days. I am floored. Truly. Somebody Swiffer me up and toss me out with the potato peels.

Mornings are spent with my first historical Women’s Fiction attempt. Afternoons are reserved for The Clockwise Heart (contemporary m/m). Daily word count goals are set for each, goals that I force myself to meet before exhausted sleep can be had.

Bottom line: Allow yourself to double-dip at least once in your career. The challenge can be incredibly satisfying to the starving ego.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Grit is Good

I intentionally try to write myself into a corner.

Real life doesn’t have escape clauses, doors hidden behind solid walls, or handy-dandy ejection seats. Real people find themselves irreversibly stuck in situations all the time. No easy-outs only cleverly hidden. No do-overs given. Reality is made of corners you can not escape, but must only survive.

So, I intentionally write my characters and myself into such places. It’s a nasty but sure-fired way to test the grit of a protagonist.

And as for the grit of the author?

Oh, yeah. You want grit.

Grit is good.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Silence Speaks

Thoughts are a bit loosey-goosey this morning, so please pardon the lack of connective tissue between these bare bones…

1.) The business side of my writing career must be addressed today. This will call for stern interaction between me and another human being. This rarely turns out well.

2.) There are no right words for Orlando. And though I want to throw my whole lexicon of both foul and compassionate language at it, I believe a reverent silence is far more fitting for today…  

3.) If only the politicians felt the same way.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Fact:

Being invisible sucks.

Just saying.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: This is not a cry for help. I’m good. This is all about aggravation with the way I am often treated. Kindness does not a doormat make… or at least it sure as heck shouldn’t.

A Token of Protest

A token of protest, if you’ll allow me.

How often do you find when reading a biography of a famous person who ended their lives by their own hand that the reason for their suicide is just “mental illness.”

I don’t blame the biographers for this. There may not be any further information to relay, especially if it’s someone who died long ago.

However, I fear that too often once the words “mental illness” are found in the person’s life, the search for a reason for their suicide ends.

Mental illness can indeed cause a person to commit suicide, absolutely. Many conditions elevate the likelihood of someone ending their own life. That is true. But many, many diagnoses of mental illness do not.

Those suffering from the broad term of mental illness do not need to carry the extra burden of an assumption of suicidal tendencies. A little specificity would be greatly appreciated by those in the do not category.

Think of it this way, biographers: Would you ever accept the following? “John Doe, age 22, died after getting sick.” Or “Jane Doe, age 33, died soon after being diagnosed as ill.”

I’m not asking for lurid details. I’m just asking for a bit more specificity. The do nots would appreciate it greatly.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: Apologies, but this has been rankling me for a while. I couldn’t help but give a wee voice to it.

Effortage (n.)

There should be some way to measure effort.

At least a word to encompass the amount of effort put into something. After all, if there is no word there can be no discussion about it.

Effortage, perhaps?

Can’t you hear a publisher say as he or she looks upon a submitted manuscript, “Hmm, what great effortage here in this scene. Clearly the author struggled over this for days. Sure, the results are iffy but the effortage is brilliant. Send this author a Rework & Resubmit.”

I think this would only be fair.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Rejection a Deux

Had to shove the couch against the front door, yesterday.

Added the potted palm and the stove just to be on the safe side.

Got my second rejection for The Hushing Days and who do you think was immediately pounding at my door?

Frank, my specter of imminent failure.

I hadn’t heard from the guy in a good while. Had hoped to keep it that way.

*sighs*

Oh well. A little furniture hefting is good for the wounded soul, I guess.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Ride the Machine

I was a writing machine yesterday!

I haven’t matched that much quantity with quality for ages. (Ok, it was March 24, but in an author’s world eons could pass in that little patch of time.)

Today, I’m paying for it. Right shoulder, left hip, and middle back are all screaming for a masseuse (FYI: there are no masseuses in this girl’s world.)

So, scream on, my young body parts! There’s more writing to be done.

Foolish bottom line: Ride the streak until one of you break. You never know when another one is coming your way.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

May the Past and Present Dance

It was a bit like digging through a trunk of old clothes, trying to find something that still fit. It took several long and grumbled filled hours but I finally found exactly what I was looking for.

So what was I looking for?

My voice.

My m/m contemporary romance voice, to be exact.

I’d packed it away about 18 months ago and had lost track of it. Silly, stupid me. Anyhow, it still fits very nicely. And as luck would have it, the m/m voice works splendidly alongside the women’s fiction voice (which is still taking quite a bit of getting used to).

Bottom line: Keep your tried and true voices close at hand.  The past sometimes dances marvelously with the present.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

A Hot Bed

It’s been a hot bed of activity around here lately. Shall I enumerate?

1.) Colin will be arriving for dinner this evening. The fact that he is a Tropical Storm and my four-legged, furry muse is “slightly unnerved” by thunder should also be mentioned.

2.) I plumbed for the first time Saturday! Yep, not only did I venture solely into the Plumbing aisles of my local Lowes, I came out the big sliding glass doors with the correct toilet innard. Then, I actually installed said-thingamabob in the right thingamajig. Go me!

3.) Yesterday, after only the day before deciding to write the thing, I successfully outlined out my 18^th m/m romance novel, The Clockwise Heart.  

4.) Yesterday, I touched not a single hair on my first Women’s Fiction novel, a book that remains only semi-outlined after several weeks of hard work. (Note: I do have over 3k written on her though, so there is that bit of sunshine peeking through. Let’s concentrate on that.)

5.) I caught more lizards having sex in my backyard Sunday. They are an inventive, gymnastic lot. Perhaps I should take notes?

Until tomorrow…

Chloe, awaiting Colin

Favoring the Bold

“Fortune favors the bold,” they say.

So, is this old idiom claptrap or wisdom? Well, I guess I’m about to find out.

I have decided to return to the m/m romance folds with a new novel entitled The Clockwise Heart. (Please, please, somebody applaud here.)

My historical Women’s Fiction novel will be written alongside the m/m contemporary romance, my work time split evenly between the two endeavors. Both novels will be written on spec. More details and explanations to come in the following days (when my stomach is no longer roiling like a tin cup at sea).

So, is this move bold, foolish or just plain cowardly?

Only Fortune knows, I’m afraid.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Harpoon Season

Well, I now have seven chapters of my new book roughly outlined. I would call this good news except they’re a little floaty.

Let me explain…

As of this click-clacking of the keys, these chapters are numbered 14 thru 20.

By the time this post hits your screen, however, there just as likely to be dubbed 6 thru 12 or 19 thru 25.

Heck, by the point you get to this sentence, they could have merged into two heavyweight chapters or just as likely shattered into thirteen wee-ones.

See? Floaty.

Next step? Dust off the old harpoon and anchor some chapter butts to the ground.

Bet they don’t teach that in Creative Writing 101.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

One Corner

With 3k words of my new novel now in my hip pocket, it’s time to firm up an outline for this bad boy!

*pauses, reconsiders exclamation point, winces but keeps it in my place*

Yep, I’m a bit nervous out this bit.

While I’ve done tons of outlines over the years, I’ve never worked one up from a single POV.

Instead of a network of cameras being stationed throughout your fictional bustling city, you’ve got one street corner manned by a guy and his cellphone. All salient events have to be maneuvered to either pass by your chosen one, or word of said-events must be relayed second-hand to him by word of mouth.

It’s a whole different kettle of fish out here, folks, let me tell you.

*pauses, rereads, cringes at the ungodly amount of mixed metaphors at play*

Ok, I think you got the point. Let me get out of here before my literary license is yanked altogether.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Test Driving a Character

The following is most likely rubbish but it is the way I apparently operate when starting up a new book. I’d never realized this before, but I realize it now. I’m not quite sure whether to feel good or embarrassed by this method, but I share it just the same. Feel free to dispose of it accordingly.

Always test drive a main character.

Take them out for a spin amongst the other characters, cruising through every situation with which your fertile writerly mind can imagine.

Watch them idle at home, at work, at play.

Get a feel for the way they handle the plot’s pavement.

Test their boundaries.

Note their flaws.

Note their flourishes.

Kick a few tires.

Hug a hood.

And then, only then, do you climb inside and head them toward the big “Once upon a time…” in the sky.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe, the rubbish collector

Aspirations of Debussy

Yesterday, I met Claude Debussy in his “Sunken Cathedral.”

While the French composer has been dead nearly 100 years and I was crisscrossing Alabama in a Honda Civic, I felt as if we’d shared a brief, candlelit encounter.

Silly, I know. But…

Someday I want my work to speak of me with the same breathless, genuine quality that that single 

prelude spoke of Debussy.

A noble, romantic goal, I readily admit, but why not shoot for a star now and again?

Until tomorrow…

Chloe