Chloe Stowe's Blog: The Words and Madness of Chloe Stowe, page 13
June 1, 2014
Beneath the Tea-Stained Skies of Yorkshire... Ravenscar
Beneath the roiling clouds in the tea-stained sky of North Yorkshire…
Down a snow-speckled alley in Montparnasse…
On a park bench in Prague in spring…
“Ravenscar” now awaits all who search there.
*coughs into her fist a bit uncomfortably*
Admittedly, “Ravenscar” also awaits all on the web this morning as it has officially been released by Dreamspinner Press, and while that is the point it lacks the bit of theatricality our short story definitely deserves in its debut to the world!
Besides, all the places mentioned above are indeed visited by our intrepid lovers, Ayers Bard and Ethan Holloway (you’ll remember him as the “John Doe” of our early February machinations).
For those of you not aware, I wrote “Ravenscar” in a mad dash of creativity over two weeks in late January and early February. The entire chaotic, hair-pulling, wonderfully satisfying, glorious event from conception to last minute edits was shared here on this blog with all of you.
“Ravenscar” is indeed our story.
Below is the official blurb for our baby, along with a link so you can see our story at play with all the big guns at Dreamspinner Press.
I’ve also included a link to my “Ravenscar” board on Pinterest which has 12 pictures, most with captions pointing out specific locales in the story.
Whew! Now, I’ve just got to write 1k on Writhe’s sequel. Long day ahead.
Remember, no evening blog anymore so…
Until tomorrow…
ChloeChloe Stowe
“Ravenscar” at Dreamspinner Press: http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/stor...
Pinterest board for “Ravenscar”: http://www.pinterest.com/coradouglas/...
Ethan Holloway, an Indiana doctor, waits on the seawall of Robin Hood’s Bay, England, remembering what brought him there. While serving with the US Army four years ago, Ayers Bard, a British Intelligence officer, saved Ethan’s life after he was left for dead by insurgents. In turn, Ethan rescued Ayers when a second attack struck their position.
A fateful meeting at a bar in Paris finally connected Ethan with his mysterious soldier, and mutual attraction became a love story that spanned years… until Ethan received the call declaring his lover dead. He arrives expecting to find closure and a companion in his grief, but instead discovers unanswered questions and maybe a miracle.
Down a snow-speckled alley in Montparnasse…
On a park bench in Prague in spring…
“Ravenscar” now awaits all who search there.
*coughs into her fist a bit uncomfortably*
Admittedly, “Ravenscar” also awaits all on the web this morning as it has officially been released by Dreamspinner Press, and while that is the point it lacks the bit of theatricality our short story definitely deserves in its debut to the world!
Besides, all the places mentioned above are indeed visited by our intrepid lovers, Ayers Bard and Ethan Holloway (you’ll remember him as the “John Doe” of our early February machinations).
For those of you not aware, I wrote “Ravenscar” in a mad dash of creativity over two weeks in late January and early February. The entire chaotic, hair-pulling, wonderfully satisfying, glorious event from conception to last minute edits was shared here on this blog with all of you.
“Ravenscar” is indeed our story.
Below is the official blurb for our baby, along with a link so you can see our story at play with all the big guns at Dreamspinner Press.
I’ve also included a link to my “Ravenscar” board on Pinterest which has 12 pictures, most with captions pointing out specific locales in the story.
Whew! Now, I’ve just got to write 1k on Writhe’s sequel. Long day ahead.
Remember, no evening blog anymore so…
Until tomorrow…
ChloeChloe Stowe
“Ravenscar” at Dreamspinner Press: http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/stor...
Pinterest board for “Ravenscar”: http://www.pinterest.com/coradouglas/...
Ethan Holloway, an Indiana doctor, waits on the seawall of Robin Hood’s Bay, England, remembering what brought him there. While serving with the US Army four years ago, Ayers Bard, a British Intelligence officer, saved Ethan’s life after he was left for dead by insurgents. In turn, Ethan rescued Ayers when a second attack struck their position.
A fateful meeting at a bar in Paris finally connected Ethan with his mysterious soldier, and mutual attraction became a love story that spanned years… until Ethan received the call declaring his lover dead. He arrives expecting to find closure and a companion in his grief, but instead discovers unanswered questions and maybe a miracle.
May 27, 2014
SPECIAL EDITION: Have you Writhed today?
Welcome one and all to the “Special Edition: Have You Writhed Today?” blog.
To celebrate the release of Writhe, my 15th novel, you will find below a spicy smorgasbord of sizzle. From the official blurb to a reveal of the cover, you may find yourself tantalized to the writhing point… or so an author with spirited delusions of grandeur can hope. *grins*
At the end, you will also find an excerpt from the novel. In fact, you will find the entire published Prologue to Writhe.
I guarantee the Prologue will not be what you expect.
At the very, very end, you will find a list of, what I hope will be, helpful links.
Please enjoy and spread the word!
Until tomorrow…
ChloeWrithe
Writhe by Chloe Stowe
(Book One of “The Lion and the Steed” Series)
Trauma surgeon. Widower… 28 year old Samuel Lyon defined his life by these words alone. Five years had passed since the car accident that had stolen his wife and only child. Five years in which Sam simply survived but no longer lived.
Black market art. International rings of thieves... Brevyn Steed’s world pulsed and thrummed with these. Chasing down stolen masterpieces around the globe defined this 28 year old’s very existence. He wanted for nothing more.
But when the case of a stolen 19th century painting sets these two opposing men’s lives on the same course, Sam and Brevyn collide in a heart-stopping mystery in which their hearts slowly weave together and blazingly writhe.
A romantic thriller from the author who brought you Forever Bound, Taken and the “Hellesgate” Series, Writhe is the story of an extraordinary love born of Fate and forged in passion.
Prologue to Writhe
On a bright winter’s day in 1787, Caspar, a boy of just thirteen, stood at the edge of a frozen lake and cried.
The wails of his aunt and the frantic screams of his father, the young man ignored. Caspar’s world had narrowed down to one finite point—
Johann.
Younger by two years, Johann always trailed behind his older brother like a puppy. Caspar didn’t mind. He enjoyed the little boy’s company; in fact, Caspar pandered to it—
But now, Johann was dead.
The ice had broken.
The boy had fallen in.
Stunned for a fatal instant, the eleven-year-old child had drifted away below the ice.
No one could reach him.
Now, an hour later, the sun beat down on the little body, trying in vain to warm the pale, pale skin.
Caspar watched, tears burning down his cheeks, tightly fisted hands trembling at his side.
“My fault … my fault …” he muttered under his breath. A thousand times he hiccupped those words that day, but no one heard him. So lost in their own agony, no one paid Caspar any mind.
By the time night fell, the young man had gone silent. When he spoke again, three days later, Johann was not mentioned.
In fact, Caspar never spoke of Johann and that terribly bright winter’s day again, until fifty years later—
Caspar stood in front of an artist’s easel and spoke of the tragedy not in words, but in paint. The truth of those fateful minutes when young Johann fell beneath ice, Caspar laid out across the canvas as his confession.
Furiously he worked, finishing the piece in less than a single day.
Standing back, satisfied though terribly sick at heart, Caspar David Friedrich, a painter now of international fame and regard, raised his brush to sign his name—and collapsed from a stroke.
Friedrich would survive, but his once-heralded career was over.
The subject of Johann, in neither word nor paint, would ever be brought up by Caspar again.
The painting, Caspar’s lone confession, disappeared. When the artist returned home from his long convalescence, the piece he had simply entitled “Johann” was nowhere to be found. Only the rumor of the painting’s existence remained.
As the decades passed, the rumor itself was even lost to all but a few.
In carefully worded whispers, the gossip of a missing masterpiece was kept alive by eager, often unscrupulous, collectors. These people, in their tight circles of high art, made it perfectly clear they were willing to pay any price and go to any length to own the lost confession of Caspar David Friedrich—
A painting known simply as “Johann.”
Links…
To purchase Writhe from the Ravenous Romance publishing house… http://www.ravenousromance.com/modern...
You can also find Writhe at these major markets…
All Romance Ebooks:
https://www.allromanceebooks.com/prod...
Amazon (it should be up sometime today):
http://www.amazon.com
Barnes & Noble (hopefully today):
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/chloe...
To celebrate the release of Writhe, my 15th novel, you will find below a spicy smorgasbord of sizzle. From the official blurb to a reveal of the cover, you may find yourself tantalized to the writhing point… or so an author with spirited delusions of grandeur can hope. *grins*
At the end, you will also find an excerpt from the novel. In fact, you will find the entire published Prologue to Writhe.
I guarantee the Prologue will not be what you expect.
At the very, very end, you will find a list of, what I hope will be, helpful links.
Please enjoy and spread the word!
Until tomorrow…
ChloeWrithe
Writhe by Chloe Stowe
(Book One of “The Lion and the Steed” Series)
Trauma surgeon. Widower… 28 year old Samuel Lyon defined his life by these words alone. Five years had passed since the car accident that had stolen his wife and only child. Five years in which Sam simply survived but no longer lived.
Black market art. International rings of thieves... Brevyn Steed’s world pulsed and thrummed with these. Chasing down stolen masterpieces around the globe defined this 28 year old’s very existence. He wanted for nothing more.
But when the case of a stolen 19th century painting sets these two opposing men’s lives on the same course, Sam and Brevyn collide in a heart-stopping mystery in which their hearts slowly weave together and blazingly writhe.
A romantic thriller from the author who brought you Forever Bound, Taken and the “Hellesgate” Series, Writhe is the story of an extraordinary love born of Fate and forged in passion.
Prologue to Writhe
On a bright winter’s day in 1787, Caspar, a boy of just thirteen, stood at the edge of a frozen lake and cried.
The wails of his aunt and the frantic screams of his father, the young man ignored. Caspar’s world had narrowed down to one finite point—
Johann.
Younger by two years, Johann always trailed behind his older brother like a puppy. Caspar didn’t mind. He enjoyed the little boy’s company; in fact, Caspar pandered to it—
But now, Johann was dead.
The ice had broken.
The boy had fallen in.
Stunned for a fatal instant, the eleven-year-old child had drifted away below the ice.
No one could reach him.
Now, an hour later, the sun beat down on the little body, trying in vain to warm the pale, pale skin.
Caspar watched, tears burning down his cheeks, tightly fisted hands trembling at his side.
“My fault … my fault …” he muttered under his breath. A thousand times he hiccupped those words that day, but no one heard him. So lost in their own agony, no one paid Caspar any mind.
By the time night fell, the young man had gone silent. When he spoke again, three days later, Johann was not mentioned.
In fact, Caspar never spoke of Johann and that terribly bright winter’s day again, until fifty years later—
Caspar stood in front of an artist’s easel and spoke of the tragedy not in words, but in paint. The truth of those fateful minutes when young Johann fell beneath ice, Caspar laid out across the canvas as his confession.
Furiously he worked, finishing the piece in less than a single day.
Standing back, satisfied though terribly sick at heart, Caspar David Friedrich, a painter now of international fame and regard, raised his brush to sign his name—and collapsed from a stroke.
Friedrich would survive, but his once-heralded career was over.
The subject of Johann, in neither word nor paint, would ever be brought up by Caspar again.
The painting, Caspar’s lone confession, disappeared. When the artist returned home from his long convalescence, the piece he had simply entitled “Johann” was nowhere to be found. Only the rumor of the painting’s existence remained.
As the decades passed, the rumor itself was even lost to all but a few.
In carefully worded whispers, the gossip of a missing masterpiece was kept alive by eager, often unscrupulous, collectors. These people, in their tight circles of high art, made it perfectly clear they were willing to pay any price and go to any length to own the lost confession of Caspar David Friedrich—
A painting known simply as “Johann.”
Links…
To purchase Writhe from the Ravenous Romance publishing house… http://www.ravenousromance.com/modern...
You can also find Writhe at these major markets…
All Romance Ebooks:
https://www.allromanceebooks.com/prod...
Amazon (it should be up sometime today):
http://www.amazon.com
Barnes & Noble (hopefully today):
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/chloe...
March 20, 2014
As Poseidon Writhes...
As Leslie Nielson is swallowed by a New Year’s wave and an upside down Christmas tree looms dangerously overhead, me, my dog and Frank welcome you to another morning at Chloe’s.
For those of you wondering who Frank is, well, long story short he’s the impending failure of Writhe. He showed up yesterday on my couch, hasn’t left and keeps asking for crumpets… See yesterday’s blog for all the gory details.
Now back to regular programming, which today is 1972’s “The Poseidon Adventure.” One of my all-time favorite disaster movies, this baby is a classic. Gene Hackman, Ernest Borgnine and Shelley Winters (in an amazing performance) all join the mayhem on the doomed ocean liner. Highly recommended piece of film history.
I have mostly recovered from yesterday’s unexpected shot of panic, so onward and upward we go!
While I still don’t have the exact release date for Writhe, I imagine it will be sometime next week or the week after. So, to get everybody’s blood hot and pleasantly jazzed for my 15th novel’s release, I’ll be tacking on to each post a little goodie I like to call… A Taste of Writhe.
Don’t worry. There will be no clowns, no banners whipping in the breeze. I’m not even expecting any confetti, although a little confetti is always welcome if you feel the need. *grins brightly*
A Taste of Writhe is simply a sentence-sized excerpt from each chapter. You’ll get one a day here (possibly two if the release date leaps up a little quicker than I expected). Tomorrow, the Taste of Writhe will be at the top of each post, but this morning I thought I’d ease you into all the spine-tingling excitement (note the sarcasm here).
So here we go! As is my custom, the first excerpt will be the first sentence of the novel. Please remember that Writhe is a contemporary romance. The past is only visited in the Prologue. Enjoy this tiny taste of Writhe!
Prologue:
“On a bright winter’s day in 1787, Caspar, a boy of just thirteen, stood at the edge of a frozen lake and cried.” (page 1)
Until tonight…
Chloe
For those of you wondering who Frank is, well, long story short he’s the impending failure of Writhe. He showed up yesterday on my couch, hasn’t left and keeps asking for crumpets… See yesterday’s blog for all the gory details.
Now back to regular programming, which today is 1972’s “The Poseidon Adventure.” One of my all-time favorite disaster movies, this baby is a classic. Gene Hackman, Ernest Borgnine and Shelley Winters (in an amazing performance) all join the mayhem on the doomed ocean liner. Highly recommended piece of film history.
I have mostly recovered from yesterday’s unexpected shot of panic, so onward and upward we go!
While I still don’t have the exact release date for Writhe, I imagine it will be sometime next week or the week after. So, to get everybody’s blood hot and pleasantly jazzed for my 15th novel’s release, I’ll be tacking on to each post a little goodie I like to call… A Taste of Writhe.
Don’t worry. There will be no clowns, no banners whipping in the breeze. I’m not even expecting any confetti, although a little confetti is always welcome if you feel the need. *grins brightly*
A Taste of Writhe is simply a sentence-sized excerpt from each chapter. You’ll get one a day here (possibly two if the release date leaps up a little quicker than I expected). Tomorrow, the Taste of Writhe will be at the top of each post, but this morning I thought I’d ease you into all the spine-tingling excitement (note the sarcasm here).
So here we go! As is my custom, the first excerpt will be the first sentence of the novel. Please remember that Writhe is a contemporary romance. The past is only visited in the Prologue. Enjoy this tiny taste of Writhe!
Prologue:
“On a bright winter’s day in 1787, Caspar, a boy of just thirteen, stood at the edge of a frozen lake and cried.” (page 1)
Until tonight…
Chloe
January 21, 2014
The Missing Siren's Song
There should be sirens.
Or at least bells.
Hell, a chime or two would do.
When your doctor-confirmed insanity gets bumped up a notch there really should be noise… lots of it… for an extended period of time over several states.
But, nope. Nothing.
That’s crap, just saying.
So, what have I done? I’ve just challenged myself to write a 3,500 word short story in 5 days… well, 4 ½ days now.
Ok, here are the details…
Not Quite Shakespeare
Edited by Sue Brown and Anne Regan
Dreamspinner Press and UK Gay Romance are looking for romantic stories set in contemporary Britain. Let your imagination run riot through the British countryside, from the bleak beauty of the Scottish mountains to the rolling hills of the South Downs. Don’t just think of London but let your men find romance in the strangest of places. This anthology is to celebrate life in the UK, both the quirky and the mundane.
Editor’s Note: Because of the packaged nature of the anthology, all stories need to stand alone. No sequels to or spin-offs of previously published works, please. Dreamspinner’s American English spelling editorial policy will be waived for this publication.
Anthology is open to authors of all nationalities and locations – the only requirement is that the story is set in the UK.
Submission Deadline: January 25, 2014
Publication Date: June 2014
Single-book anthology story length: 3,500 – 12,000 words
Manuscripts shorter or longer will be considered but will have to be extraordinary.
Send all submissions to ukgayromance@gmail.com. Please list the anthology title in the subject line of your e-mail: Not Quite Shakespeare anthology submission.
Honestly, I wasn’t looking for trouble. I just ran across this call by accident and WHAM! And idea popped into my head and I was off.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
But kind of fun, too.
So, we’ll see how this goes.
Wish me luck…. I will definitely need it.
I’ll keep you updated!... and somebody, please, ring a freaking bell for me.
Chloe
Or at least bells.
Hell, a chime or two would do.
When your doctor-confirmed insanity gets bumped up a notch there really should be noise… lots of it… for an extended period of time over several states.
But, nope. Nothing.
That’s crap, just saying.
So, what have I done? I’ve just challenged myself to write a 3,500 word short story in 5 days… well, 4 ½ days now.
Ok, here are the details…
Not Quite Shakespeare
Edited by Sue Brown and Anne Regan
Dreamspinner Press and UK Gay Romance are looking for romantic stories set in contemporary Britain. Let your imagination run riot through the British countryside, from the bleak beauty of the Scottish mountains to the rolling hills of the South Downs. Don’t just think of London but let your men find romance in the strangest of places. This anthology is to celebrate life in the UK, both the quirky and the mundane.
Editor’s Note: Because of the packaged nature of the anthology, all stories need to stand alone. No sequels to or spin-offs of previously published works, please. Dreamspinner’s American English spelling editorial policy will be waived for this publication.
Anthology is open to authors of all nationalities and locations – the only requirement is that the story is set in the UK.
Submission Deadline: January 25, 2014
Publication Date: June 2014
Single-book anthology story length: 3,500 – 12,000 words
Manuscripts shorter or longer will be considered but will have to be extraordinary.
Send all submissions to ukgayromance@gmail.com. Please list the anthology title in the subject line of your e-mail: Not Quite Shakespeare anthology submission.
Honestly, I wasn’t looking for trouble. I just ran across this call by accident and WHAM! And idea popped into my head and I was off.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
But kind of fun, too.
So, we’ll see how this goes.
Wish me luck…. I will definitely need it.
I’ll keep you updated!... and somebody, please, ring a freaking bell for me.
Chloe
January 17, 2014
Through the Mac & Cheese, Bravely
Press your ear to your south window and concentrate really, really hard.
Do you hear it? The papery swish of an envelope being slid through a mail slot? The sigh of a world rolling its eyes and thinking "Finally."
Now take your ear off the window before everybody starts looking at you funny and I'll tell you what I've done.
I, the mad to the bone, Chloe Stowe has finally sent in my application to join the Romance Writers Association! The kinks in my mind have straightened out just enough to allow me to take this step. Why I had a hang-up about this I've got no idea. I simply file that mystery away with my chronic aversion to macaroni and cheese.
I'm also told that I am PAN eligible now so that will be my next step... Wow, aren't I sounding all normal today? Well, of course, except for the macaroni and cheese thing.
Wish me luck in surviving my personal bravery.
Geez, my life is ridiculous.
Sincerely,
Chloe Stowe
Do you hear it? The papery swish of an envelope being slid through a mail slot? The sigh of a world rolling its eyes and thinking "Finally."
Now take your ear off the window before everybody starts looking at you funny and I'll tell you what I've done.
I, the mad to the bone, Chloe Stowe has finally sent in my application to join the Romance Writers Association! The kinks in my mind have straightened out just enough to allow me to take this step. Why I had a hang-up about this I've got no idea. I simply file that mystery away with my chronic aversion to macaroni and cheese.
I'm also told that I am PAN eligible now so that will be my next step... Wow, aren't I sounding all normal today? Well, of course, except for the macaroni and cheese thing.
Wish me luck in surviving my personal bravery.
Geez, my life is ridiculous.
Sincerely,
Chloe Stowe
January 14, 2014
The Scrying Seed
In the spirit of spicing things up for my upcoming new series of books, I’m adding something a little bit new to my blog. Weekly, there will be a “Scrying Seed” post. As I research the international thrillers for my “Lion & Steed Series”, I have stumbled upon a million ideas for stories. Since my remaining years will most likely far less than the million required to expand upon each “seed”, I will give them to you, my faithful readers.
Do with them as you wish. They will always be factual, with NO poetic license taken. These are just odd tidbits of time and place which have for some reason tweaked my interest. I will also accompany each “Scrying Seed” with a collection of accompanying pictures. These images will be mostly location-based, i.e. the city / area the tidbit of history took place. I will provide a link to the ever-growing gallery (my board on Pinterest) on each post. Check back often. I’m always rifling through old pictures in lieu of eating. The first seed, alone, has 53 images attached.
Enjoy them, share them, create stories of mad love and wild thrill with them. They are yours.
The Original Scrying Seed...
Rooting around in my sleeping garden, I found today a seed. It is small, heathery in color, flat as a tic bean. I hold it in my hand, turn it over with my fingers and sigh. It has a story to tell, a vivid one with lightning, thunder and a fleeting heartbeat.
Spring nears at a crawling pace, hampered both by winter’s breath and the constant rap-rap-rap of madness on the garden’s gate. The barren, gray sky looms heavy overhead. This pip of an idea, this neglected seed in my dirty palm, deserves fairer weather in which to grow.
So, into the air I toss this speck of a story, this grain of a tale, hoping the warm gulf breezes will carry it to richer gardens, wiser gardeners, saner lands.
Plant this scrying seed, add words of your own, water with tears and sweat and watch your novel grow. Send me a note when you to taste its first fruit.
Once a week, I will send such a seed into the wired wind. Watch for it, my fellow authors, grab it and enjoy.
Sincerely,
Chloe Stowe
Note: all these “story seeds” are historical facts. Feel free to research them yourselves. Let me know any extra tidbits you find out.
Wombwell, England
On the 22nd of August, 1467, a confession was recorded in the village of Wombwell, England. William Byg, alias “Lech of Wombwell,” admitted to the crime of scrying. (Scrying is the practice of looking into a translucent ball or other such material to “see” or “peep” the future or past events.) William Byg claimed to have earned his living for the previous two years by locating stolen property by gazing into his crystal ball.
Byg was convicted of heresy and sentenced to do penance for his soothsaying. As punishment, he was forced to wear paper scrolls attached to his head, chest and back. These scrolls read: ‘Ecce sortilegus’ (‘Behold the soothsayer’), ‘Invocatur spirituum’ (‘Invoker of spirits’) and ‘Sortilegus’ (‘Soothsayer’).
Today, Wombwell is a town of approximately 15,000 citizens in South Yorkshire, England. A former mining town, Wombwell is located in the Dearne Valley, south of the city of Barnsley and north of Rotherham.
The Wombwell Scrying Seed Gallery can be found here... http://www.pinterest.com/coradouglas/...
Do with them as you wish. They will always be factual, with NO poetic license taken. These are just odd tidbits of time and place which have for some reason tweaked my interest. I will also accompany each “Scrying Seed” with a collection of accompanying pictures. These images will be mostly location-based, i.e. the city / area the tidbit of history took place. I will provide a link to the ever-growing gallery (my board on Pinterest) on each post. Check back often. I’m always rifling through old pictures in lieu of eating. The first seed, alone, has 53 images attached.
Enjoy them, share them, create stories of mad love and wild thrill with them. They are yours.
The Original Scrying Seed...
Rooting around in my sleeping garden, I found today a seed. It is small, heathery in color, flat as a tic bean. I hold it in my hand, turn it over with my fingers and sigh. It has a story to tell, a vivid one with lightning, thunder and a fleeting heartbeat.
Spring nears at a crawling pace, hampered both by winter’s breath and the constant rap-rap-rap of madness on the garden’s gate. The barren, gray sky looms heavy overhead. This pip of an idea, this neglected seed in my dirty palm, deserves fairer weather in which to grow.
So, into the air I toss this speck of a story, this grain of a tale, hoping the warm gulf breezes will carry it to richer gardens, wiser gardeners, saner lands.
Plant this scrying seed, add words of your own, water with tears and sweat and watch your novel grow. Send me a note when you to taste its first fruit.
Once a week, I will send such a seed into the wired wind. Watch for it, my fellow authors, grab it and enjoy.
Sincerely,
Chloe Stowe
Note: all these “story seeds” are historical facts. Feel free to research them yourselves. Let me know any extra tidbits you find out.
Wombwell, England
On the 22nd of August, 1467, a confession was recorded in the village of Wombwell, England. William Byg, alias “Lech of Wombwell,” admitted to the crime of scrying. (Scrying is the practice of looking into a translucent ball or other such material to “see” or “peep” the future or past events.) William Byg claimed to have earned his living for the previous two years by locating stolen property by gazing into his crystal ball.
Byg was convicted of heresy and sentenced to do penance for his soothsaying. As punishment, he was forced to wear paper scrolls attached to his head, chest and back. These scrolls read: ‘Ecce sortilegus’ (‘Behold the soothsayer’), ‘Invocatur spirituum’ (‘Invoker of spirits’) and ‘Sortilegus’ (‘Soothsayer’).
Today, Wombwell is a town of approximately 15,000 citizens in South Yorkshire, England. A former mining town, Wombwell is located in the Dearne Valley, south of the city of Barnsley and north of Rotherham.
The Wombwell Scrying Seed Gallery can be found here... http://www.pinterest.com/coradouglas/...
January 9, 2014
A Flicker of Heat
As winter settles deeper and deeper into our bones, I offer you a flicker of romantic heat...
Chloe Stowe will return in March of 2014 with her 15th novel, the first of The Lion and the Steed Series. Two more books in the series will be published in '14, with another three tentatively scheduled for 2015 if the readers are still hungry.
Details, teases and the famously mad blog of Chloe Stowe will arrive in the coming weeks.
Please help me spread the word... and the heat!
Sincerely,
Chloe StoweChloe Stowe
Chloe Stowe will return in March of 2014 with her 15th novel, the first of The Lion and the Steed Series. Two more books in the series will be published in '14, with another three tentatively scheduled for 2015 if the readers are still hungry.
Details, teases and the famously mad blog of Chloe Stowe will arrive in the coming weeks.
Please help me spread the word... and the heat!
Sincerely,
Chloe StoweChloe Stowe
July 9, 2013
A Line of Blowing Sand
With the early morning sunlight streaming through my windows, I sit on the floor in some absurd yoga position I’ve read about and chant lowly to my empty house, “Embrace rejection (breathe in)… Now, let it go (breathe out)… Embrace rejection (in)… Let it go (out)…”
You get the picture.
This transcendental cleansing lasts exactly 11 minutes. At which point my big toe heads for my little toe in an over-the-top foot cramp that defies the laws of physics and survivable pain. Once my incomprehensible screams have reverted to very clear, blindingly colorful curses I give spiritual peace up for dead and collapse on my couch to mope my brains out.
Well, that’s my morning. How is yours?
Yeah, so, I got a rejection. A big one. As in a “Dear Writer” form letter. While it’s hardly anything new (I mean, I’m a writer, hello?), but I had really wanted this one.
Armed to the teeth with a resume of over a dozen published novels in the romance genre and a kick-ass synopsis I had spent a couple of weeks polishing to brilliance (insert self-deprecating laugh here), I sent off one heck of a proposal… and what did I get back?
Diddly-squat.
Except, of course, for my nifty form letter and a catastrophic toe event.
So, I guess, that would technically not make it diddly-squat, but I’m pouting, ok? And diddly-squat is a fun word to say and I’m going to take whatever pleasure I can find out of this colossal failure of mine. So, diddly-squat it is…
And, yes, I did take my meds this morning, thank you very much. It’s not my fault if all my let’s-not-freak-out drugs were used up un-knotting my toes…
Seriously, though, rejection is a part of every writer’s life. It’s just not a very fun part.
So, why am I sharing this with you?
Perhaps it’s to show my sane side to you. Last post I showcased my insane half. This time it’s my sanity’s turn.
Sometimes even I am just an ordinary person with ordinary, diddly-squat problems.
The mentally ill are not always as far removed from normalcy as some people think. Sometimes all that separates us is a line of blowing sand.
Sincerely,
Cora Douglas Sands
You get the picture.
This transcendental cleansing lasts exactly 11 minutes. At which point my big toe heads for my little toe in an over-the-top foot cramp that defies the laws of physics and survivable pain. Once my incomprehensible screams have reverted to very clear, blindingly colorful curses I give spiritual peace up for dead and collapse on my couch to mope my brains out.
Well, that’s my morning. How is yours?
Yeah, so, I got a rejection. A big one. As in a “Dear Writer” form letter. While it’s hardly anything new (I mean, I’m a writer, hello?), but I had really wanted this one.
Armed to the teeth with a resume of over a dozen published novels in the romance genre and a kick-ass synopsis I had spent a couple of weeks polishing to brilliance (insert self-deprecating laugh here), I sent off one heck of a proposal… and what did I get back?
Diddly-squat.
Except, of course, for my nifty form letter and a catastrophic toe event.
So, I guess, that would technically not make it diddly-squat, but I’m pouting, ok? And diddly-squat is a fun word to say and I’m going to take whatever pleasure I can find out of this colossal failure of mine. So, diddly-squat it is…
And, yes, I did take my meds this morning, thank you very much. It’s not my fault if all my let’s-not-freak-out drugs were used up un-knotting my toes…
Seriously, though, rejection is a part of every writer’s life. It’s just not a very fun part.
So, why am I sharing this with you?
Perhaps it’s to show my sane side to you. Last post I showcased my insane half. This time it’s my sanity’s turn.
Sometimes even I am just an ordinary person with ordinary, diddly-squat problems.
The mentally ill are not always as far removed from normalcy as some people think. Sometimes all that separates us is a line of blowing sand.
Sincerely,
Cora Douglas Sands
July 8, 2013
X
I wrote the following a few days ago. It had been raining for a week and my mood was as downcast as the Florida skies.
It is rare of me to write of my mental illness without trying to point out a silver lining of some sort.
There is no silver here, and I apologize for that. I post this solely in the hope that it might enlighten someone as to the silent disease many of us battle daily.
Next time, I promise brighter words under a brighter sky.
***
I imagine a blaring white sky.
Like the sole, rotting tooth in an old man’s forced smile, Haley Center’s ten stories punctures the haze-infested heavens of Auburn, Alabama.
The grass burned yellow from a sweltering September sun lies brittle and sick on the hillside. The breeze lies strangled and forgotten in the car-choked parking lots.
The war eagle stares blandly from its cage.
Everything aches…
If life was a book and a morning merely a choreographed scene, this is how the day I lost my mind would have played.
Yes, like a badly written freshman English composition. I was, after all, only a freshman. Nineteen years old and so green it hurt.
But life is not a book and all my scenes were ad-libbed abstracts of a mute.
It was slow, the losing of my mind. It meandered more than it leaped. Every step heavier and crueler than the last…
I still drag a leg sometimes. Always will, I suppose.
I should have written this better. It should be clearer, less clichés, more insight. Forgive me, but this was nothing more than a hit and run – words better apart than recklessly collided…
But sometimes I close my eyes and I wish there had been that one moment to point to.
A certain hour, a particular sky, a singular day to “x” out every year on the calendar.
It would be so much easier to “x” out one day of my life instead of two decades.
*sighs*
Well, that’s over now. Nothing more to see here. You can move on.
As for me, I now open my eyes and limp slowly away from this poorly written scene.
***
As always, thank you for your company.
Sincerely,
Cora Douglas Sands
It is rare of me to write of my mental illness without trying to point out a silver lining of some sort.
There is no silver here, and I apologize for that. I post this solely in the hope that it might enlighten someone as to the silent disease many of us battle daily.
Next time, I promise brighter words under a brighter sky.
***
I imagine a blaring white sky.
Like the sole, rotting tooth in an old man’s forced smile, Haley Center’s ten stories punctures the haze-infested heavens of Auburn, Alabama.
The grass burned yellow from a sweltering September sun lies brittle and sick on the hillside. The breeze lies strangled and forgotten in the car-choked parking lots.
The war eagle stares blandly from its cage.
Everything aches…
If life was a book and a morning merely a choreographed scene, this is how the day I lost my mind would have played.
Yes, like a badly written freshman English composition. I was, after all, only a freshman. Nineteen years old and so green it hurt.
But life is not a book and all my scenes were ad-libbed abstracts of a mute.
It was slow, the losing of my mind. It meandered more than it leaped. Every step heavier and crueler than the last…
I still drag a leg sometimes. Always will, I suppose.
I should have written this better. It should be clearer, less clichés, more insight. Forgive me, but this was nothing more than a hit and run – words better apart than recklessly collided…
But sometimes I close my eyes and I wish there had been that one moment to point to.
A certain hour, a particular sky, a singular day to “x” out every year on the calendar.
It would be so much easier to “x” out one day of my life instead of two decades.
*sighs*
Well, that’s over now. Nothing more to see here. You can move on.
As for me, I now open my eyes and limp slowly away from this poorly written scene.
***
As always, thank you for your company.
Sincerely,
Cora Douglas Sands
July 1, 2013
"Under a Paper Sun" : A Dalliance with Sanity Blog
And so it begins.
An introduction seems appropriate. For all who have followed my career previously, please excuse the redundancy. Feel free to look away for a few moments while I get my rather shredded laundry out on the line.
I’ll make this as quick and painless as possible.
I’m a little mad. Really. I’ve got the psych drugs in my blood to prove it. For the last twenty two years, I’ve been battling chronic panic attacks. And we’re not talking just a little anxiety here, folks. We’re talking bad ones, completely debilitating ones that at their worst lasts for days... 48 to 72 hours of relentless fright.
Imagine walking down a sidewalk. Everything is fine. The weather is good. The day is happy. Your steps are even and without thought -
Right… left… right… left… right… suddenly, the earth is gone. Your left foot has nowhere to land. It simply falls taking you with it.
Your heart drops a million times faster than your body begins to do. You flail backwards, throwing all of your weight backwards, terrified of falling, knowing without a doubt that you will die if you stop struggling for an instant.
Now imagine that split-second of panicked teetering between life and death, sanity and madness stretching out for minutes, hours, days. There is no relief, either physically or mentally. The strain is constant, crippling. You don’t know which will shatter first, your body or your mind.
Imagine twenty-two years of it.
Voila! You’ve just imagined me.
It’s better now. The medication is brawny and relentless; it keeps my steps steady for the most part. Unfortunately, the meds are not all-healing.
I cannot work.
I can, however, write.
With fourteen novels published, I can even justify the thought that I write pretty damned well.
Now, it’s time to scrape out a living of it.
With my fifteenth novel, The Sun and the Sand Cat, I take “a step forward in faith” (as my mother says). I enter the mainstream romance market!
My goals are not extreme, though they sound rather ridiculous. Ready for a sad laugh? I want to earn enough money to owe income tax. Yes, silly, but there is a point.
Most people plan for retirement. I plan for losing my mind.
Mental illness is hardly a reliable sort of disease. There is no prognosis, either good or bad. At this point I’ve accepted that I’ll never be fully well, but I fear, quite rationally, that I will get worse. Social security may, one dark day, become my only hope of not becoming a burden to my family. Income tax births social security, hence my rather “silly” goal.
And there you have it. My condition in a blog-encrusted nutshell.
I doubt I will mention this goal again. I am aware it is particularly pitiful and I try very hard not to dwell on it.
I’m a woman who tries to always dance in whatever sunshine I can find… even if it’s under a construction paper sun tacked haphazardly to my bedroom ceiling.
Chapter Four of The Sun and the Sand Cat calls. You can track the story’s progress on the aptly named “Sun & Sand Cat” page on my new website: www.coradouglassands.com
I do hope you will return again. I’d enjoy the company.
Sincerely,
Cora Douglas Sands, twirling under her bright paper sun
An introduction seems appropriate. For all who have followed my career previously, please excuse the redundancy. Feel free to look away for a few moments while I get my rather shredded laundry out on the line.
I’ll make this as quick and painless as possible.
I’m a little mad. Really. I’ve got the psych drugs in my blood to prove it. For the last twenty two years, I’ve been battling chronic panic attacks. And we’re not talking just a little anxiety here, folks. We’re talking bad ones, completely debilitating ones that at their worst lasts for days... 48 to 72 hours of relentless fright.
Imagine walking down a sidewalk. Everything is fine. The weather is good. The day is happy. Your steps are even and without thought -
Right… left… right… left… right… suddenly, the earth is gone. Your left foot has nowhere to land. It simply falls taking you with it.
Your heart drops a million times faster than your body begins to do. You flail backwards, throwing all of your weight backwards, terrified of falling, knowing without a doubt that you will die if you stop struggling for an instant.
Now imagine that split-second of panicked teetering between life and death, sanity and madness stretching out for minutes, hours, days. There is no relief, either physically or mentally. The strain is constant, crippling. You don’t know which will shatter first, your body or your mind.
Imagine twenty-two years of it.
Voila! You’ve just imagined me.
It’s better now. The medication is brawny and relentless; it keeps my steps steady for the most part. Unfortunately, the meds are not all-healing.
I cannot work.
I can, however, write.
With fourteen novels published, I can even justify the thought that I write pretty damned well.
Now, it’s time to scrape out a living of it.
With my fifteenth novel, The Sun and the Sand Cat, I take “a step forward in faith” (as my mother says). I enter the mainstream romance market!
My goals are not extreme, though they sound rather ridiculous. Ready for a sad laugh? I want to earn enough money to owe income tax. Yes, silly, but there is a point.
Most people plan for retirement. I plan for losing my mind.
Mental illness is hardly a reliable sort of disease. There is no prognosis, either good or bad. At this point I’ve accepted that I’ll never be fully well, but I fear, quite rationally, that I will get worse. Social security may, one dark day, become my only hope of not becoming a burden to my family. Income tax births social security, hence my rather “silly” goal.
And there you have it. My condition in a blog-encrusted nutshell.
I doubt I will mention this goal again. I am aware it is particularly pitiful and I try very hard not to dwell on it.
I’m a woman who tries to always dance in whatever sunshine I can find… even if it’s under a construction paper sun tacked haphazardly to my bedroom ceiling.
Chapter Four of The Sun and the Sand Cat calls. You can track the story’s progress on the aptly named “Sun & Sand Cat” page on my new website: www.coradouglassands.com
I do hope you will return again. I’d enjoy the company.
Sincerely,
Cora Douglas Sands, twirling under her bright paper sun
The Words and Madness of Chloe Stowe
The daily blog of a published Romance author, Cozy Mystery rookie... and certified crazy woman.
Well into its 6th year, this blog chronicles the daily triumphs and struggles of a chronic panic / anxie ...more
Well into its 6th year, this blog chronicles the daily triumphs and struggles of a chronic panic / anxie ...more
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