A Touch of Meek

Psyched myself out yesterday like a real pen-wielding chicken.

Kept circling around Twisted Intent, clucking to the muse that “I’ve got this thing!” Problem was I just kept circling.

*sighs… then sneezes on a stupid chicken feather*

Apparently, I don’t wear confidence well. Meekness will be sported today.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

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

The Scrum Avoidance

I have either channeled a brilliant strategist or chickened out altogether.

The Prologue in The Hushing Days requires a fight/battle/all-out-scrum between 18^th century soldiers.

Alas, I am not a writer of scrum. At least not a very good one. Practice makes perfect, I suppose, but scrums with muskets are surprisingly rare in most contemporary romance. Pity, that.

Anyhow, I’ve decided to avoid putting fight to word completely. Instead, I am having a panicked character remember the fight (and retell it to the reader) in bright, angry flashes of memory. Hence, the plot points get across without the audience getting bogged down in useless detail. (This being a prologue, one must avoid bogging at all costs.)

Strategist or chicken? You decide.

I’m leaning toward some kind of feathery spawn, myself.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe