A kick in the gut by a hobnailed boot.
Loneliness has that way of hitting you. It takes you down for the count.
Internal bleeding? Check.
Scars? Yep, you betcha.
What’s worse is when it catches you unawares. Give me a little time to prepare and I can handle most spiked pummels with more than my fair share of poise and decorum.
But that ever so rare sucker shot sends me reeling.
So, as I lay here flat on my back, still winded from a particularly vicious kick last night please excuse this little blip of self-pity.
It is Christmas and I am so blessed, but even the most steely of life veterans stumbles and falls from time to time.
Until tomorrow, when this steely (though still thoroughly mad) veteran will return upright and smiling…
Good news like fresh bananas likes to come in bunches.
*pauses while the wisdom of that statement ferments in your soul*
So as I was scrounging around the banana tree yesterday, it wasn’t entirely surprising to find Quiver’s cover betwixt the leaves.
And may I just say that it is piping hot.
I’m absolutely loving it, which is so particularly nice since this is most likely the last cover I’ll receive from Ravenous Romance.
I was expecting the delivery to be bittersweet but I’m tasting nothing but the sugary good stuff right now.
Scrambling up from one rung on the career ladder to the next isn’t easy, as you all well know. So it is extremely nice to have a sizzling picture of two strikingly handsome men making out to see me and my pup off to the mainstream.
No release date has been given to me yet, but I couldn’t resist sharing Quiver’s cover with you all a little early.
Have a great Friday before Christmas, everyone!
Wonderful news I’d like to share with you this Thursday morning…
Do you remember those five novels whose rights had been reverted back to me from Ravenous Romance several months ago?
Well, I have just this very minute received an offer for all FIVE to be republished!!!
Details to follow once all the particulars with the publishing house and my literary agent are ironed out.
Until then, please join me and my furry, four-legged muse in a happy dance that will put even the grandest elven shenanigans to shame! Santa’s always merry and bright little helpers have nothing on me and my pup this Christmas season.
Now, please pardon me while I cartwheel.
As the Six Brothers project idles in wait for the peak of the holiday season to steamroll past, that writing itch of mine is starting to ache.
“The need to write in this one is strong, indeed,” a Yoda-like voice confirms from the heavens.
So, I’m having to force myself at night not to pick up pen and paper to follow any stray storyline drifting by. (There are a ton of such storylines clogging up my skies. All flitting and fluttering about, trying their best to coax my always wandering eye to their flight… No wonder the doctors ply me with Prozac and pat me often on my poor little head. *chuckles wryly*)
The bottom line is this: A vacation from creating/storytelling/playing-make-believe is darn near impossible for me.
As my pseudo-Yoda would say, “The writing itch in this one is nasty, indeed.”
Have you noticed how my blog postings are getting later and later as Santa gets closer to loading his sleigh?
I am shying away from blaming elf activity for my tardiness for the lone objective of remaining on Mr. Claus’s “Nice” list.
The fact that I’m still clinging to the bottom of that list at such a late date in the year is rather miraculous and I’d like to push it and see how far I can ride the good cheer before crashing and burning at the feet of a fat and peeved Kris Kringle.
*pauses, considers, winces just a little*
Have you noticed how the length of my sentences and my lack of grammatical aptitude has increased exponentially with the nearing of the big elven show time?
Blame for this lies solely on me I’m afraid. Brain cells and syntax ground rules tend to flail and go particularly dim at the sight of all these wonderfully twinkling Christmas lights. If life was up to me, I’d just plant myself in front of a gaily lit Christmas tree and gawk giddily all year long.
*pauses, considers, winces grotesquely*
Have you noticed that this post has no merit whatsoever?
Yeah. Me, too.
So without further ado, I bid you good morning.
Until tomorrow (when I WILL get this posting thing right, I promise)…
Ok, time for a spot of hard truth…
Getting any substantial work done on the word count of my Six Brothers project from now until Christmas is nothing more than idle folly.
In other words, it ain’t happening.
While in some dark corner of my brain I had surely known this truth for the last week or so, I was hesitant to drag it out into the light until now. (Future failures are terribly ugly beasts I usually try to fight back with a stick. Hauling them out for show and tell in front of the class is something this over-achiever tries to avoid at all costs.)
Well, everybody, meet Grunewald.
Grunewald is 7 feet and 310 pounds of bald and blatant failure on my part.
He is a grumpy, bloated sort who feasts on gingerbread cookies and my voracious self-doubt.
He enjoys sneezing, self-satisfied snorting and all manner of cavorting with his close cousin Frank (my specter of imminent failure).
Grunewald is available for adoption immediately.
Please contact the nut writing this blog for further details.
Oh, you should see the list of goodies I’ve dug up from my newly acquired hardback Recollections of Life on the Prison Ship Jersey. It’s amazing! (Note how the nerdiness abounds here.)
No worries though. There will be no hammering of Revolutionary War trivia at you. I will be speaking in general terms alone, so stop nervously glancing at that exit door. There will be time enough for fleeing later.
What has surprised me most in my current fever of researching are the tidbits I find myself jotting down as I read.
Instead of the cold, hard facts about the imprisonment of soldiers in the prison ships in Wallabout Bay, I’ve honed in on the actual words the former prisoner uses to describe his experience. Such as, what the prisoners would call the ship? What did the guards, both kind and heartless, call the captured soldiers? What terms the imprisoned men used to describe areas of the hellish ship?
The cold, hard facts about how long the Jersey was or how many guns she once held have mattered little to my hungry imagination. (Usually I devour these kinds of facts like M&M’s…. you know, the more the merrier.)
But, apparently, I have actually grown as a writer. I now zero in more on contemporary impressions than numbers and specs.
I’ve finally realized that in writing a historical novel true to the historical characters doesn’t mean a reliance on history.
Hmm. Who knew?
Well, I’m about a quarter of the way through reading one of my much anticipated research books.
1.) A shortage of Post-It notes in the southeast United States.
2.) A plethora of ideas that has needed constant swatting down. (My Six Brothers project is already full to overflowing. Extraneous storylines, no matter how juicy, are simply not allowed.)
3.) At least five completely new novels revving their engines in my ears. (Yep. All disallowed “extraneous storylines” from above have stormed here.)
4.) Did I mention the Post-It notes thing?
It’s always dangerous to give me research to do.
I should have known better.
I can only hope Santa’s got an “in” at the Post-It notes factory.
Points of view.
How many is too many?
Please direct your responses to “Chloe Stowe: Frantic Worry Wart.”
Thank you and good day.
*seriously considers ending it there but relents with a sigh*
I’m worried, so please allow me to vent for a blogging moment.
Having never written a novel with more than three points of view, I’m a little freaked at trying to write one with at least six.
Is six ok?
Does it help that it will be the voices of three men and three women? Or does it make it even more confusing?
Am I in over my head? Or can I blame this panicking on the infamous misfiring of my brain cells? (Remember: underlying Chronic Panic Disorder here.)
Or should I just suck it up and go for it? Who gives a rat’s behind how many people are talking as long as the story they’re telling is freaking fantastic… right?
Yeah, well, excuse me while I go tear my hair out.
Chloe, the Soon-To-Be Bald
With my hardback edition of Recollections of Life on the Prison Ship Jersey clutched excitedly to my chest, I am ready to meet Thursday with the feverish gusto of a researcher too long from the tomes.
I am a rather silly human being, I know.
Oh well, I am determined to embrace my eccentricities. Perhaps a few of them will even payoff on my first full-body dip into mainstream romance?
The voracious hunger of a “I want to know it ALL!” should give me a leg-up on some of the competition… Right?
If it hasn’t come to your attention yet, I am trying very hard to defend this researching jaunt. I should be writing, but bowing to a little folly in your work shouldn’t be an altogether bad thing. Especially if said-folly could add a bit of colonial-era sparkle to the tale. (Can a 100k novel even be called a tale? Hmm, something to ponder between dusty tomes)