Fear not, faithful followers. The world has not swallowed me whole. I am indeed alive, well and sincerely apologetic for not posting a single word yesterday.
Visiting family, including a 4 year old charmer of a nephew, captured all of my attention Monday. This may be a common occurrence the rest of this week so I can’t honestly guarantee a daily blog every, well, day.
I trust you all will be able to muddle through without my sparkling wit and dour outlook creeping in through the cracks of your day.
Rest assured that while I’m neglecting this blog, I am neglecting The Hushing Days as well. So, you won’t be missing a single struggle or triumph as I shove the behemoth of a novel over that finish line… You’re welcome, by the way.
Enjoy your potentially Chloe-less time this week, everyone!
Until tomorrow… or the next day… or for sure next Monday…
I simply refuse to dwell. There will be no lingering, either. No dragging of one’s feet, no circling in place, no loitering around the failure as if that would change any bloody thing.
It is August 1, and The Hushing Days is still not complete.
It’s almost there, but it’s not there.
Another internal deadline not only missed but blown by with a peel of tires and a jaunty honk of the horn. I’ve still got 19 chapters to push across Final Edits and it is freaking August 1…
*stops, catches breath and sighs*
I’m dwelling, aren’t I?
Oh well. Failure is simply another step toward success, right?
Yeah, we’ll go with that and move hurriedly on.
POST NOTE: There will be no blog on Sunday. Family duties call and I will be answering.
With the final day of July upon us, it is time for the monthly gathering of Chloe tidbits!
Please enjoy these specks of the writerly me. They are neither contagious nor itchy.
1.) Stymied once again about chapter length, The Hushing Days and I are aiming for 4,500 words per parcel. Whether this is too long or too expected, I have no idea. But I’m tired of thinking about it, so 4,500 it is.
2.) I might, perhaps, possibly have developed a thing for Bryce Harper’s collarbones. The Washington Nationals outfielder has a habit of wearing his jersey open at the top with nothing but lovely skin beneath. Hence the collarbone thing. Surprisingly, I feel no shame in this. My motto: Enjoy the things that make you drool in this life. What’s a little spit among friends?
3.) Speaking of sexy, The Hushing Days’ MPAA rating has yet to be firmed up. Certainly it’s at least PG-13 for violence and dastardly thoughts, but whether the sexual content will stretch to an R level or not is still very much up in the air.
4.) Thanks to the ungodly steam and storm of this July, my little garden is now a little jungle. The size of the lizards has grown alarming, and I fear monkeys have moved in.
5.) I’m ready to be done with The Hushing Days.
6.) I’m scared to be done with The Hushing Days.
7.) Have I mentioned Bryce Harper’s collarbones?
Apologies for the tardiness of today’s post.
A 1 ½ hour sojourn to the auto shop to get a new tire knocked me right on my psychologically ill butt.
Gathering what remains of my badly chipped psyche took a bit of work (and 2 chocolate chip cookies). But, here I am! Teetering but present.
The big news of the day is this… I FINALLY finished Chapter Four of The Hushing Days!!! It is so dolled up and decked out in literary and grammatical splendor that I could plop it down on a potential editor’s desk and walk away with a smile.
Of course, this leaves 19 more chapters to do.
Awful big number…
But a number less than 20, so let’s pop the champagne, folks!
While you all enjoy a little bubbly, I’m off to start on Chapter 5. (The fact that the Prologue and Chapters 1-3 are still waiting in editing queue doesn’t bother this girl a bit. The fact that it should bother me is another matter altogether. *sighs* Somebody pass me my Prozac.)
I’m not one to complain.
*dog falls off the couch laughing*
Despite the antics of my four-legged, furry muse, I really don’t enjoy complaining. Pointing out the cosmic inequities of this world and how it relates directly to me is another matter. This, I believe, is called Fact Mining.
Fact Mining I enjoy.
It’s pro-active (in a sort of a “hands up, don’t shoot me” kind of a way).
It’s generally humorous (my life would be nothing without sarcasm).
And, most importantly, it forces me to find those elusive silver linings (even if I have to draw one in with a silver crayon).
So, here’s what I mined up from yesterday’s general crappiness…
1.) I had a flat tire. So, I couldn’t go to the gym. So, I had to call AAA. So, I had to deal with the very nice mechanic in my state of very embarrassing fluttery-ness. Hello, panic disorder…. (Silver lining: I had the flat tire while I was at home and didn’t have to force my fluttery-ness on anybody but the poor mechanic.)
2.) The headache I’d been babying along in the morning grew fangs and an attitude in the afternoon… (Silver lining: The migraine-wannabe stayed under the level of puking. I appreciate that.)
3.) The power went out for nearly an hour in the middle of a day with a heat index of 106 degrees… (Silver lining: It came back on before ice baths were required.)
4.) One of my favorite baseball players was traded away from my team… (Silver lining: He’s going to a contender. Unfortunately, I am not.)
And there you have it.
Care to borrow my silver crayon?
Twenty years ago today, I popped my first Prozac. And I haven’t stopped popping since.
For those of you out there who are wondering if this is a milestone to be celebrated or damned, let me assure you it is cause for confetti and sweet tears.
My life may be far from perfect, I might still struggle with my chronic panic disorder every single day, but I am so much better than I was it is truly a blessing.
So, as I drag the last scene of Chapter Four kicking and screaming and biting and spitting into Final Edits today, I am going to be smiling like a loon.
If it wasn’t for Prozac, there wouldn’t be a Chapter Four…. Or 17 published novels before… or a life in Florida under the sunshine and palm trees.
If it wasn’t for Prozac, there wouldn’t be this Chloe.
So, here’s to twenty years, ladies and gents!
And here’s to twenty more!
Well, actually, think making jambalaya… (in the abstract, people; no kitchen tools or seafood will be necessary for completion of this blog – although, really, more’s the pity, right?)
Anyhow, writing an ensemble romance is a lot like cooking up a great pot of jambalaya.
You’ve got your meat.
You’ve got your seafood.
You’ve got your celery, peppers and onions.
You’ve got your rice and your stock.
You’ve got one big pot to put it all in, and you’ve got a crowd of hungry takers beating down your kitchen door to get to it.
Sure, you can just throw everything in the pot, turn the heat up to high and hope the health department doesn’t show up.
You can baby each ingredient. Enrich each of its flavors. Make it stand out on its own merits before dancing it around in the culinary crowd.
Then, and only then, can you put everything together and season it as a whole… as jambalaya.
Alright, this was admittedly a rather lame post, surely not one of my best efforts, but I brought seafood to your Monday morning. That’s got to be worth something, if only a little forgiveness.
Barring flood, quake, pestilence or bodily strife, Chapter Four of The Hushing Days will be done tomorrow.
It will be the first chapter into the Final Edits pool, where only grammatical finagling and fact checking await.
“Final Edits will be spa-like,” I’ve assured the unwilling and hesitant Four. “You will just lie there and rest while magic fingers will dabble you with commas and semicolons. It will be utterly delightful as your overly manhandled body will be gently massaged into perfection.”
Yeah, well, Four wasn’t buying it.
So, I sweetened the pot with the promise of tea-cakes and Mai Tai’s.
Four is now onboard.
Remember, young writers: Don’t be afraid to bribe your story along. Whatever it takes to make it move, do. You can deal with the crumbs and Mai Tai stains later.
Life has thrown at me a couple of roundhouse punches this week.
While I bob and weave a bit today, please excuse the total failure of this post this morning.
Tomorrow, I hope to be a little less bleary-headed.
I will see you then, my friends.
My muse in her sharp-tongued wisdom is accusing me of dragging my heels with The Hushing Days.
She asserts that the sole reason it’s taking forever and a fortnight to shove all first draft chapters into final draft-ness is that I’m scared. Squeamish, even.
She claims that since I’ve worked so long and so hard on my premier mainstream romance that I’m leery of the results. That I’m cowering in the face of doneness. Shaking in my proverbial boots.
The inevitable fact that I’m going to have to be rejected a ton of times before some poor, desperate publishing house takes pity on the poor, desperate crazy girl and buys The Hushing Days from her for a pittance, the furry, four-legged muse charges is bringing me up short. Holding me back. Cutting me off at the knees…
Bring it on.
Ok, I need a drink.
Somebody give the dog a treat. My freaking muse is right again. Darn it, darn it, darn it.
Alright, everybody get out of here. I’ve got work to do.