Late, but present…. This will be motto for the next few weeks, I’m afraid.

After two trips to the grocery store, hours elbows-deep in a sausage sourdough dressing (which is just now finally in the oven) and countless gymnastic maneuvers through touchy family dynamics, I am well and properly pooped.

Pooped without a single, solitary word written beyond this here blog.

So, thank you for your constant presence. At least I can take my writer out to play every day here.

Until tomorrow…


Hammer Me Softly

Hammer Me Softly

As many of you are aware, when I travel I schmooze with classical music. Mozart and I have had a regular affair these last few months. Operas, chamber music and the like, we’ve had our share of brilliant times (in other words, he being brilliant and I being slack-jawed dumb. I stroked his ego. He stroked my fool. It worked for us, ok?)

Anyhow, as I tootled around the countryside yesterday I took up with a new beau… the classical piano solo.

Yes, he is rather broad, all-encompassing in scope it would seem. But to this former middle school drummer, his foreign nature intrigued me scandalously.

So, I danced with his man Bach and shared a brief kiss with Beethoven (who left me wanting more) before the trip sadly ended.

Why do I share this, you may ask? Because I learned something that translates quite beautifully to the craft of writing…

A harpsichord (the precursor to the piano) made its music by plucking strings. A piano, on the other hand, hammers the strings. Surprisingly, the act of plucking limits the sound the strings make. It can neither be made soft nor loud, for instance. Only hammering allows for this flexibility.

To a writer, words are very much the strings to our craft. Playing with them nicely, plucking them gently, is limiting. We must not be afraid to hammer them sharply, treat them boldly to get the most beauty, the most depth out of our “strings.”

Yeah, silly of me, I know. But what’s a little silliness amongst friends?

Until tomorrow…


Post-note: My travel blog “Tiptoeing Soul” on WordPress has been updated with a second post. My search for the best writing nooks in the world gains shape and form with “The Quirkiness of Place.”  Just in case, you can’t get enough of me. *winks*

Rusty Cracks


stockvault-rusty-metal121405After a day of robust writing on Thursday, I floundered on Friday.


I could blame many things for this flopping, including but not limited to:

a.) The smoking of my sewers… Yes, the city actually does that and did that here Friday. While I appreciate their efforts at potential leak management, panic-ridden smut writers just really can’t “get it on” during sewer games.

b.) A travel day lurking ahead… Sunday will once again find me “hop, skip and jump”ing across the region. Being a nervous little twit, anything “upcoming” upsets the psyche. Don’t ask. I have no idea.

c.) Thanksgiving looms… Any holiday revolving solely around eating and socializing is bad news, ok?

Yep, I could drag out any of those reasons and plop them ceremoniously on the altar of good excuses, but I won’t. I fear the truth is something much more embarrassing….

I am out of practice.  Fiction-writing has been put on the backburner so many times these last three months, I’ve simply forgotten how to do it regularly.

This is bad.

Fixable, but very, very bad.

I don’t like being rusty. I don’t like it at all.

Until tomorrow…


Giving Head


skullI believe I’ve strained something.

Pulled a brain cell.

Sprained a lobe.


Stunning my four-legged, furry muse and myself yesterday, I actually got significant work done on The Hushing Days.

Really significant.


Unfortunately, this little trip into proper productivity has left the old grey matter hurting, aching, sputtering to a near stop. Stringing these few sentences together has taken an hour.


I’m off to ice my head.

Until tomorrow…


Kitchen Sink Delusions


stockvault-bad-moon-rising101282Alright. I’ll admit to the flailing.

I’ll give you there was some railing.

I’ll even own up to chucking a kitchen sink at the bloody issue.

Forget the “Beloved Wife, Mother, etc.” crap. My gravestone will read “Well, at least she tried really, really hard.”

I try gosh-darn it! I give it my all (however inelegantly that may be, i.e. flailing, railing, kitchen sink-chucking). I may be a freaking failure at life, but I’m going out exhausted and thoroughly pooped at trying…

*four-legged, furry muse pops me a good one on the back of the head, her “Geez, that’s enough!” startlingly clear*

Ok, ok, here it is.

Yesterday, I spent the entire day starting a new travel blog.

*silence from the blog auditorium… except for that guy in the third row snickering at the stupidity*

I told you I was thinking about it. I warned you that I had been turning such nonsense around in my head. But you didn’t really think I’d go through with it, did you?

Ha! Fooled ya, right?

Dear readers, you give me too much credit. Common sense is often not within me. Remember, I chuck kitchen sinks.

Anyhow, the whole “Tiptoeing Soul” blog sprung out of yesterday’s post. Take a gander and you’ll see yesterday’s kitchen sink. (

Why, oh why, can’t I let things just be?

Until tomorrow…

Chloe, Your Fool

Against the Apothecary’s Jar


honey-bee-cherry-blossoms-2In a field of white sweet clover sits an apothecary’s jar.

Inside the tightly closed and absurdly lidded glass madly hums a hundred and one bees.

It is late spring and the clover is in bloom.

Furiously the bees pound and writhe against their glass enclosure. Throwing themselves angrily against the clear, unrelenting glass, they give no thought to forewing, hindwing, spiracle or the like. They are frantic with hunger. They will gladly sacrifice little parts of themselves for a chance to taste that sweet, sweet clover…

But the glass never breaks.

The bees do.

And slowly, slowly the jar falls silent until all is lost but a dream.

Sometimes, living with a chronic mental illness is like this. Placed in the middle of a beautiful, thriving world we cannot reach, we destroy ourselves trying.

I do this.

A lot, actually.

*sighs heartily against the glass*

I need to learn another way.

Until tomorrow…


Post-note: Sometimes crap like this just needs to be said. Apologies.

The Question of TMI


Thought process - Finding a solution to a problem

Having to cram unexpected backstory into Chapter One of The Hushing Days.

Pushing, shoving, wheedling, pleading are all measures being deployed.

Stubbornly, studiously, ignorantly refusing to address the nagging inquiry of when does sound backstory topple into TMI (too much information) for the reader?

Would desperately appreciate a cheat sheet/answer/freaking clue about this.


As in, now.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe the Stuffer

“Do or Do Not. There is No Try.”


stockvault-ostrich115957I do try to be good.

A monkish life despite my smut-writing tendencies is testament to both a.) my mental nuttiness (panic disorder, anxiety exasperation, OCD tendencies, PTSD flirtations, and the like) and b.) my general goody-two-shoe-ness.

Yes, I’m an inherently boring person who when given the choice between being good or bad abashedly chooses the good.

So, it is in this “angelic” fervor that I try not to work on Sundays. God says a day of rest is needed and I say okay.

Or at least I try.

Very hard.

But my mind goes a little spasmodic without writing of some sort to occupy it. The old brain needs to latch onto some creative project to save it from spiraling down into “Crap, I’m crazy” mode.

So, yesterday, in my ultimately futile efforts of being restful, I did the following…

1.) Wrote a chunk of a children’s story. No, not young adult. I’m talking young kid… I know, I know. Don’t ask me why. I just know there was an ostrich involved and a toothbrush. Other than that, I haven’t got a clue.

2.) Flirted with the idea of starting a travel blog… Laughable. First, I don’t have the time. Second, what would I call it, “Where the Monks Go To Party”?

3.) Skimmed through calls for submissions again. No particular genre in mind. Just trolling the Want Ads and thinking “Hey, how hard could it be to write a steampunk variation of The Grapes of Wrath?”

So, as you can see, I do try to be good.

Please, oh please, let that mean something.

Until tomorrow…


Cling Hardily to This


stockvault-coin-bank107189Never underestimate the importance of a cheat sheet.

Cling hardily to it.

Secure it in your under-things if you must.

When writing a novel of any kind, it is absolutely vital to keep tabs on all your players. You can be as detailed or as lax as you dare, but jotting down a record of who did what to whom and where is crucial for the sake of your story’s continuity.

It may be boring. It may feel a bit like the tedious school work of yours days past. It may be unintelligible gibberish to all but you, but it is NECESSARY.

Having momentarily misplaced my own cheat sheet for The Hushing Days (a stark 48 hours I twitch at recalling), I know of what I speak.

Take heed, dear writers. Take heed.

Until tomorrow…