Dust on the Whatnots

End of the month, so here’s my list of whatnots gathering dust in my corners:

1.) Now in the eye of the cone of uncertainty, meteorologically speaking. (Under a Hurricane Watch for tomorrow night.) Psychologically speaking, I’ve long ago earned squatter rights in that cone.

2.) My OCD tendencies are having a delicious time with The Bolthole blog. This is not good. Weening off of searching for just the perfect photo has begun. So far, results are more positive than not. Barely.

3.) An unusual amount of writing on The Clockwise Heart is being done on paper. Why? Please. As if I have any idea what goes on in this nuthouse.

4.) Bone-tired of the crap that goes on inside my head, so…

5.) Even more determined to force some measure of success out of this cranial mess of mine.

6.) I need a holiday, not a hurricane.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Home, Twisted Home

It’s taken me 26k words to finally feel at home with the boys of The Clockwise Heart.

No awkwardness remains.

I can drop one of my mind-blowingly twisted situations in their laps, walk out of the room to grab a cold one and know they’ll handle the newest kink in the plot all on their own.

By the time I get back to the couch with my beer, the boys will have hogtied the craziness, shoved it under the coffee table and gotten back to bantering over the game.

Ahh! Home, sweet home for a writer… Isn’t it weird?

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Art of Re-Digestion

For every novel published, there are two feeding the trash. At least, that’s my ratio. A 50k novel inevitably produces about 100k of scrap, so…

”Cannibalization Encouraged Here!”

While not particularly catchy and a bit of a mouthful in many respects, I think this should be the welcome mat in front of every writer’s door.

Waste not, want not. Don’t be afraid to allow one successful project to feed off a failed one.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Gypsy Intent

Between the Abstract and the Practical lives Literature.

On the abstract side of the tracks, you’ll find Romance.

As a Romance writer I try to be a gypsy claiming citizenship to neither but claiming home to both.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: Yeah, I don’t know what this is either. It just crawled on the screen and sat there. Let’s consider this post a kindly old squatter and look the other way. 

Storytelling Junkie

As you may know, I’ve started a new blogging project, The Bolthole.

Yeah, I know, what the #*!?, right? (The four-legged furry muse had the same reaction, trust me.)

Two reasons, and here they are…

1.) I loved doing The Tiptoeing Soul travel/writing blog but I simply don’t have the time to work on that now. *sighs* So, the Bolthole is an abbreviated version of it. A place where I can just plop down and share whatever places immediately wrench a story out of me. Think of it as taking a quick and dirty inspiration hit for all us storytelling junkies out there.

2.) I work too darn hard already but needed to work just a little harder. (Yeah, yeah, probably just feeding the problem here, but no one can say I don’t give this writing thing my all.)

Hope to see you there!

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

https://boltholeblog.wordpress.com/

Acrobatic Tendencies Required

Nearing the halfway point of The Clockwise Heart.

*a smattering of applause from the blog auditorium*

*a prudish snort of “Please, what else did you expect?” from the four-legged, furry muse*

The opinion of the characters of The Clockwise Heart are mum on the subject, as they are too busy jumping through every-tightening romantic hoops for their way too cynical author.

Here ends this pointless update.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Brickyard

If boundaries were brick walls, I’d lose my frontal lobe to ramming.

And when that chunk of brain was laying on the ground all minced to gory pieces, I’d trample over its carcass trying to crash the next lobe in line into that same bloody bricked up spot.

Stupid?

Or brave?

Don’t ask me. I lost that answer to the brick a long time ago.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: Living with a mental illness is often all about boundaries, lines you simply can’t cross and remain happily sane… Twenty-five years inside and I’m still killing myself trying to bust out. 

Giddy Happens

Surprise! Found a writing contract in my email this morning!! Always a fantastic way to start the day.

I’m a bit out of practice at filling these things out so it took a stupid amount of time to do. (Not complaining, just stating a sleep-addled fact.)

Anyhow, it looks to be official now. My Christmas novella “Forever Bound in Tinsel” will be published by Riverdale Ave Books this December! While technically a reprint, this story had only appeared in an anthology before, so this will be its standalone debut.

Can one reasonably do “giddy” at seven o’clock in the morning?

Yes! Yes, one can.

Must go now before my excitement explodes and you get my giddy in your hair.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Place

I have an unhealthy obsession with “place.”

Let’s put my OCD-tendencies aside for a moment and address this as the writing quirk that it is.

Creating a character in a physical vacuum, I cannot do. Cropping and pasting a dude from a featureless room into a to-be-determined location shot is simply impossible for me. Specifically picturing the surroundings the character will be interacting with is a necessity. For instance…

I need to know if there’s a chair in the corner of the room in which he stands. I need to know if there are blinds or curtains on the windows in which he looks out. I need to know if he paces upon wall-to-wall carpet, area rug or hardwood. Etc., etc., etc..

This is the height of silliness, of course.

But it is my flaw and I will own it proudly… as long as you tell me if there’s a couch in the room.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Embrace the Hot Air

The Banter Queen.

The Royal Quipper.

The Wry, Sly, Foxy Chick from down Florida way.

Call me what you will, but I am darn good at writing repartee. Jaunty, unexpected exchanges between characters is my specialty. It is my talent.

Yesterday, I got in the groove and it felt freaking marvelous!

Bottom line:  Don’t be afraid to hype your talents to yourself. A little hot air is good for the artist’s 

soul.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Unkinked

Since I stubbornly refuse to ever employ a simple storyline in my romances, I inevitably stumble upon a kink in the plot. You know, a twist in the old garden hose that makes the water sputter and cough.

In the case of my books, this kink is usually a jump between one event and the next, a leap that is just a little too long or a little too wrongly angled to allow the reader to traverse it comfortably.

Yesterday, out of nowhere, the kink in The Clockwise Heart suddenly worked itself out beautifully. No effort on my part, either. It just magically unknotted itself and the storyline once again flowed.

Hello, unkinked after-glow!

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Gasping

From shoulders to thumbs, both arms in plaster casts.

From knees to toes, both legs in cement.

Propped standing center stage in front of the world, you are given a live, gasping fish to hold in your hands. As long as you keep hold of this fish, you keep hold of your sanity. The moment yours hands slip, the moment the fish squirms free of your fingers… panic devours you whole and you are lost to a scream.

This is life with a Panic Disorder.

This is life Chronic Anxiety.

This is life with Mental Illness.

I’d appreciate those in the audience to take note.

Thank you.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Rusty Nail

Writers are a lot like fishermen. Lobster fishermen, to be exact.

We litter the seabed with fetchingly colored traps of every shape and size hoping a stray crustacean moseys into our grasps.

Yesterday, a Homarus gammarus finally wandered my way.

I wrestled the 500 word clawing beast to the ground and hauled his little a** right into The Clockwise Heart.

I celebrated the end of my dry spell by downing a Rusty Nail (that’s Scotch Whiskey and Drambuie, mates) and a plate of kippers.

Yo-Ho!

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: “Not really” to the kippers. “No comment” on the Rusty Nail.

Last Ditch Tricks

The scene-listing trick has been employed.

Much like a back-up parachute, it is something one never plans to use.

Listing the scenes in a novel, both written and yet-to-be written, is my last ditch maneuver in jumpstarting a stalled project. Seeing on paper what exactly is left to be done on a book never ceases to ignite the “Let’s get this bad boy done!” fire in me.  Show me a finish line and I’ll grind my hands and knees to the bone crawling to it.

Bottom line:  Know your last ditch tricks… and use them.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Inspiration vs. Need

Inspiration, at times, lags behind need.

You need to get a writing project done. You need to get words down on paper. You need to set a fire under your authorial butt and get a freaking book done...

Inspiration yawns, manages a “Nah. Not interested,” before ordering another iced tea.

AARGH!

Excuse me. I have some hair to yank out of my scalp.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Work in Progress

Do not over-knead.

This goes for bread dough, the anemic tush and romantic plotlines.

Years of experience in the kitchen has taught me the first.

A spate of borderline anemia has warned my tush off the second.

But the third? Apparently, I still need pounded into my head from time to time. After penning 20 or so novels (both published and yet-to-be’s) I really should have this little mantra down.

I don’t.

*sighs*

Perhaps a tattoo to somewhere bold might be called for?

Bottom line: Every writer is a work-in-progress.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Pressure

I’ve got to get to work.

Last week was a hodgepodge of extremely good and extremely bad writing days.

That is over.

That must be over.

…

Ok, well, now that I’ve put an ungodly amount of pressure on myself, let’s get this train wreck 

rolling.

*smirks*

Until tomorrow…

Chloe 

Buzzed Writing

For an OCD-tinted, anxiety-ridden, world class over-achiever such as myself I lack a remarkable amount of discipline.

I am forever busy as the proverbial bee. I am constantly buzzing, sticking my little bee parts into my writing, scooping out literary pollen here, depositing storied pollen there. It is literally exhausting. So, why can’t I pop out novels faster? Why can’t I churn out these books at the furious pace in which I write them?

Discipline, I assume.

Easy answer, right?

But how does one punish a bumble bee without squashing it? Somebody, please, tell me that.

*sighs*

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

With a Squint & a Tout

Victory is sometimes only seen with a squint.

A puppy-like cock of the head, a tentative lean forward, a curious poke of it with a stick. Sometimes even then victory is not easily declared.

In daily battles with mental illness, oftentimes, a victory must be taken wholly on faith. These are the hardest to celebrate. These are the hardest to share. For how can you reasonably tout, “This time, I didn’t have to hide behind the chair. This time, I only had to curl up on the couch for a few hours to see me through the panic?”…

Hmm.  It seems I just did. I think I’ll allow myself a smile at that.

Bottom line: Tout. Sometimes that’s a victory in itself.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Busted Nose. Bloody Eye.

How did the writing go yesterday, Chloe?

Good. Steadily increasing in word output. I’ve got some really nice character development going on now. Just about ready to print out the first 20k and get a fresh look at where the story stands.

Great. Good job.

Yes, things were moving right along… until bloody Britain popped up out of nowhere and I busted my nose on the blasted London Eye.  

Um, I take this as something bad?

Phoenix. Chicago. That was supposed to be it. The Clockwise Heart folks were not supposed to step foot out of those two environs. This story was supposed to be simple. Easy. Not freaking international!

Oops?

Well, said.

Now, pardon me, I’ve got to go tape up my nose.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

When the Director Can Only Sway

I do wish simplicity and I got along better.

What started out as a “simple” romance I vowed to keep elementary in scope and detail is quickly evolving into a complex dance of point of views.

I do not Samba.

I do not Foxtrot.

Heaven knows, I do not, nor will ever, Waltz.

I am therefore unprepared to handle the synchronized drama The Clockwise Heart has become.

I sway, people! That’s it.

Somebody please inform Fred and Ginger to tone their choreographed histrionics of voice down a bit before their director storms off stage and cries.

Thank you.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Bunny Tail Problem

If “slow and steady wins the race,” what the heck does “meandering and flighty” do for you?

No need to shout out answer here, folks. I’ll tell you exactly what it does for you… 305 words of iffy writing and a fresh shine and buff to the old guilt complex.

Today, I must do better.

Today, I must play the tortoise to yesterday’s hare.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the bunny tail is now off!

*rolls eyes at this entire post… and the utter lunacy of my life*

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Nape of Perseverance

Perseverance.

I’m tired of snuggling up to it.

Tired of nuzzling my nose into the word’s nape.

Tired of spooning my life into the concept.

I’d much prefer to see how my body would curl around lust.

How my breaths would match passion’s.

How my heart would beat in time to adoration.

Someday.

Until then, I’ll sleep with perseverance and dream.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: Where this came from, I have no idea. Hopefully no siblings will follow… By the way, 763 words written yesterday. Their siblings quite welcome.

Masochism with Shovel

So, according to my best calculations (i.e. a recounting of fingers and toes this morning), I have 30 days to write 43K words.

Doable? Certainly.

Realistic? Not so much.

But since reality and I have never really gelled, I don’t see a problem.

Therefore, ladies and gents, please join me in feeding my newest delusion… The Clockwise Heart will be done one month from today!

*gulps uncomfortably at the freshly dug pitfall at my feet*

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

I Am Not Job

After an evening of gruesome nightmares from which not one positive could be scraped from the steaming, stinky pile of negative, I pose this question… How can my writing benefit from this experience?

This is not a new question. In fact, it’s very old. I ask it all the time.

Panic, anxiety, OCD-stupidity are always addressed with this query once the daily battling is done. 

There must be some good to come from such experiences, some wisdom I can impart if not to myself than to my readers about these ridiculous struggles.

Fortitude and faith are the most common answers, but the question asked after particularly cruel, apocalyptic nightmares I wrestle to find an answer to.

Oh, well. I guess it’s just another failing to add to the lot. *smirks*

Travel day tomorrow, folks, so…

Until Monday…

Chloe

Tardy

Please, blame today’s tardiness on the following…

1.) Furniture shopping an hour’s drive away in a little, teeny, tiny town in Tennessee.

2.) Failure to find a darn thing furniture shopping in the little, teeny, tiny town in Tennessee.

3.) A much needed nap cocooning a headache born in a nightmare conceived the night before.

4.) Olympic Opening Ceremony food making.

5.) Olympic Opening Ceremony food eating.

Apologies all around.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

...And Make the Door Red

Well, the bloody thing finally has a beginning.

I am truly appalling at writing opening lines/scenes/chapters of a novel. Oh, I have no problem picturing the perfect entry for readers into my storyline but getting it down satisfactorily on paper is another thing entirely.

So, it is with great relief, and with 17k words of the tale in the rearview mirror, that I can announce that my newest romance has its stoop, its front door (red, of course) and its welcoming little foyer.

Somebody, pop me some champagne!

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: True, you have to squint to make this orange door appear truly red, but I adored the picture and just had to go for it. Apologies for my rose-colored glasses.

Knotting

As I have lamented several times, I tend to complicate things.

Give me an outline consisting of Jack, Jill, a hill and a pail of water and I’ll not write you a nursery rhyme, I’ll craft you a five-part saga with prequel and sequel possibilities.

Hence, I am trying very hard not to turn my simple romance The Clockwise Heart into something akin to a Gordian knot of love.

“Trying” being the key word here.

*sighs*

Somebody, please, lash my hands behind my back and shackle my toes. Perhaps if I can write only by pecking my nose against the keyboard things will take a simpler turn.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Spine

One must have a spine.

Every major character I’ve ever written has had one. However flawed or crooked they may have been, however broken and life-weary, no matter the time or the place, each and every one of them has had a spine.

Even I have a spine. Oh, with my panic disorder it is remarkably feeble at times but it is always there. I may have to kneel, I may have to crawl, but I will never slither.

So my question is this… Are most politicians simply born without or do they pry their spines from their bodies the moment they take higher office?

Although it pains me to admit as a writer, sometimes words are not enough. Sometimes action is called for. Rebuking certain “demagogues” by vague inference does nothing. You must find your spine and stand up to them. Do more than talk from your bellies. Stand tall and take back your support.

Please.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

The Tunnel's End

After seven hours on the road, I managed to throw a grand total of thirty words at the screen yesterday.

Thirty words.

At this current pace, my two in-progress novels will arrive in digital bookstores in approximately 2062,  just in time for some posthumous laughs at my ill-attended wake.

On a brighter note, my mind is no longer sludge. There is movement in the synapses. Sparks have occurred. I will take this as a positive and beam appropriately.

Perhaps Tuesday I’ll even manage something meaningful to say?

Until tomorrow…

Chloe