Chloe Stowe's Blog: The Words and Madness of Chloe Stowe, page 17
March 29, 2012
"Sticky Dick": Blog Eight of the -Cock Fight- Dailies
“Finally, the honey fell from Mitchell’s thigh, dripping slowly down to the inner curve of Carr’s hip.” (page 121)
Day Eight of the -Cock Fight- Dailies comes bearing honey.
Sweet and sticky with a seductive blond gleam, it slides across skin with a lazy swagger that’s all about sex and all about hunger. What other food stokes the carnal fires as well as the ambrosia brought to fruition by the love of a honeybee?
(Yeah, um, going to get my poetic license pulled for that one, huh?)
To be wordy or to be brief? That is the dilemma.
I hope to God someone has the answer.
I waver. I straddle the fence. One minute I’ll go all Faulkner on you and the next I’m Hemingway-ing you to death.
Which does the wayward reader prefer?
For example, let’s take the classic nursery rhyme about Jack and his girl Jill.
First up, we’ve got the short and sweet tact…
“Jack and Jill went up the hill.”
Mr. Hemingway couldn’t have put it any better than dear old Mother Goose. It’s direct, impactful, allows you, the reader, to fill in the details the way you see it and, most importantly, it tells you what you want to know without having to dig through any frou-frou. A drill sergeant could do no better for his recruits. Yes, sir!
Or…
“Lacing his fingers within hers, Jack with a nervous smile upon his face and a trembling flutter to his heart took Jill up the hill.”
Yes, well, it does seem that sex is indeed “up the hill.” The intent of the characters is laid out plainly in the author’s choice of words. There’s no wishy-washy-ness about it. The reader’s got nothing to do but to grab a condom for Jack on the way up that hill.
Which does the reader prefer?
I write a bunch of different kind of stuff. I’ve had published tons of romance (gen, m/m, paranormal), a spattering of horror and a morsel of literary. My writing style seems to not only follow the genre I’m working in but also the time restraints I’m given.
Surprisingly, I write fastest when I write wordy. Throw a bunch of pretty words at a scene, toss in a little punctuation and stir with a critical eye and you’ve got yourself a paragraph you can work with. With time, you become one of those proverbial grandmothers who stand over the stove, tossing this and that and what-the-hell-ever into the pot without a measuring cup in sight. In the end, however, if the grandmother’s very, very good, the reader can dip his spoon anywhere in her stew and get a taste of something magnificent.
The hardest way to write for me is Hemingway-esque. Short, powerful sentences where the words that aren’t on the page are just as important as the words that are. It’s a chess game where you’ve been given the first move. It’s all on you if you screw it up. Pressure, plain and simple. At least 10 mg of my meds can be blamed on this choice of writing style.
So, what have we learned from this exercise?
Jack and Jill went up a hill.
That’s it. At least until tomorrow…
Chloe Stowe
Day Eight of the -Cock Fight- Dailies comes bearing honey.
Sweet and sticky with a seductive blond gleam, it slides across skin with a lazy swagger that’s all about sex and all about hunger. What other food stokes the carnal fires as well as the ambrosia brought to fruition by the love of a honeybee?
(Yeah, um, going to get my poetic license pulled for that one, huh?)
To be wordy or to be brief? That is the dilemma.
I hope to God someone has the answer.
I waver. I straddle the fence. One minute I’ll go all Faulkner on you and the next I’m Hemingway-ing you to death.
Which does the wayward reader prefer?
For example, let’s take the classic nursery rhyme about Jack and his girl Jill.
First up, we’ve got the short and sweet tact…
“Jack and Jill went up the hill.”
Mr. Hemingway couldn’t have put it any better than dear old Mother Goose. It’s direct, impactful, allows you, the reader, to fill in the details the way you see it and, most importantly, it tells you what you want to know without having to dig through any frou-frou. A drill sergeant could do no better for his recruits. Yes, sir!
Or…
“Lacing his fingers within hers, Jack with a nervous smile upon his face and a trembling flutter to his heart took Jill up the hill.”
Yes, well, it does seem that sex is indeed “up the hill.” The intent of the characters is laid out plainly in the author’s choice of words. There’s no wishy-washy-ness about it. The reader’s got nothing to do but to grab a condom for Jack on the way up that hill.
Which does the reader prefer?
I write a bunch of different kind of stuff. I’ve had published tons of romance (gen, m/m, paranormal), a spattering of horror and a morsel of literary. My writing style seems to not only follow the genre I’m working in but also the time restraints I’m given.
Surprisingly, I write fastest when I write wordy. Throw a bunch of pretty words at a scene, toss in a little punctuation and stir with a critical eye and you’ve got yourself a paragraph you can work with. With time, you become one of those proverbial grandmothers who stand over the stove, tossing this and that and what-the-hell-ever into the pot without a measuring cup in sight. In the end, however, if the grandmother’s very, very good, the reader can dip his spoon anywhere in her stew and get a taste of something magnificent.
The hardest way to write for me is Hemingway-esque. Short, powerful sentences where the words that aren’t on the page are just as important as the words that are. It’s a chess game where you’ve been given the first move. It’s all on you if you screw it up. Pressure, plain and simple. At least 10 mg of my meds can be blamed on this choice of writing style.
So, what have we learned from this exercise?
Jack and Jill went up a hill.
That’s it. At least until tomorrow…
Chloe Stowe
March 28, 2012
"A Gentleman Caller": Blog Seven of the -Cock Fight- Dailies
“With a slow turn of the knob, Darian peeked out of the slit of an opening. He frowned. “Did they send you to tell me that he was dead, Mr. Christianson?” (page 99)
Welcome one and all to Day Seven of the -Cock Fight- Dailies. We are over halfway there, folks. I hope you’re enjoying this 13 day blog event as much as I am.
Darian, Isadora (whom you have already met in Blog Three), Tahlia, Aldo, Stephanie and Victor… These characters are the supporting cast for my 11th novel Cock Fight. Not to give too much away, in no particular order in this group of players we have got: a lawyer (with too big of a head), an art dealer (who plays for both sides), a scumbucket (with no style), a mommy (who leaves too soon), another scumbucket (with style out the ying-yang) and a daddy (who may have stayed too long). A pretty colorful cast of characters, huh?
Odd little characters such as these populate all my books. I love crafting all their weird angles, their warts and their beauty marks, their skewed though insightful views.
In a way they are my glass menagerie.
In the Tennessee Williams play (and subsequent movie), Laura is a girl who is crippled a little in both mind and spirit. As her mother longs for a “gentleman caller” to come knocking on their door to sweep her daughter away in love, Laura spends the bulk of her time playing with her collection of tiny glass animals.
While I can thankfully say that I am in a considerably better situation than Laura, I do have a giggle as I think of the odd little men and women that have sprung out of some odd little place in my brain sitting on my bookshelf staring back at me…
And if this whole conversation hasn’t freaked you out at least a little, you are a better soul than me. My meds are calling and I, dear ones, am answering.
Until tomorrow (when I promise not to get as creepy or as oddly literary),
Chloe Stowe
Welcome one and all to Day Seven of the -Cock Fight- Dailies. We are over halfway there, folks. I hope you’re enjoying this 13 day blog event as much as I am.
Darian, Isadora (whom you have already met in Blog Three), Tahlia, Aldo, Stephanie and Victor… These characters are the supporting cast for my 11th novel Cock Fight. Not to give too much away, in no particular order in this group of players we have got: a lawyer (with too big of a head), an art dealer (who plays for both sides), a scumbucket (with no style), a mommy (who leaves too soon), another scumbucket (with style out the ying-yang) and a daddy (who may have stayed too long). A pretty colorful cast of characters, huh?
Odd little characters such as these populate all my books. I love crafting all their weird angles, their warts and their beauty marks, their skewed though insightful views.
In a way they are my glass menagerie.
In the Tennessee Williams play (and subsequent movie), Laura is a girl who is crippled a little in both mind and spirit. As her mother longs for a “gentleman caller” to come knocking on their door to sweep her daughter away in love, Laura spends the bulk of her time playing with her collection of tiny glass animals.
While I can thankfully say that I am in a considerably better situation than Laura, I do have a giggle as I think of the odd little men and women that have sprung out of some odd little place in my brain sitting on my bookshelf staring back at me…
And if this whole conversation hasn’t freaked you out at least a little, you are a better soul than me. My meds are calling and I, dear ones, am answering.
Until tomorrow (when I promise not to get as creepy or as oddly literary),
Chloe Stowe
March 27, 2012
"Morning Delights": Blog Six of the -Cock Fight- Dailies
“Pacing back and forth in front of a spectacularly naked man was another new experience for him. Hell, he was popping cherries all over the damned place.” (page 94)
Welcome to Day Six of the –Cock Fight- Dailies and to the one chapter title I’m just not happy with. There’s no pizzazz to “Morning Delights.” It’s almost mundane. *sighs*
To compensate, how about I throw some kindling on the fire and heat this blog up a couple hundred degrees?
Alright, ladies and gents, let’s put on the potholders and dive into… Chloe Stowe’s Naked Man Facts!
1.) A naked man making me pancakes in the middle of the night can turn me on faster than anything labeled XXX and running on batteries ever could. Even if he’s a lousy cook, cleaning off the batter splattered on his body with my tongue is well worth having to choke down a couple of rubbery hot cakes. Besides, you’ve got to admire a man who puts his “manhood” so close to an open flame just for his woman (or man, whatever the flavor the day may be).
2.) A naked man holding a screwdriver is, for some reason, catastrophically hot. Yes, we’re talking “BOOM!”, folks. A thousand little bits of aroused Chloe is all the poor guy would be left with. (Note to self: Is there such a thing as a hardware fetish? And what is the marketability of such a kink in the publishing world?)
3.) A man who sleeps in the nude will always get a big gold star on his dick from me. Just saying.
4.) A man sunbathing in the nude is just asking to be eaten. He better bring a stack of napkins with him. Things could get messy.
And finally a Chloe Stowe Naked Man Fantasy… Playing the Dukes of Hazzard with my matchbox cars on his ass. Yeehaw!
Ok, silliness is now over. Everybody can return to their normal lives. *grins*
Until tomorrow…
Chloe Stowe
Welcome to Day Six of the –Cock Fight- Dailies and to the one chapter title I’m just not happy with. There’s no pizzazz to “Morning Delights.” It’s almost mundane. *sighs*
To compensate, how about I throw some kindling on the fire and heat this blog up a couple hundred degrees?
Alright, ladies and gents, let’s put on the potholders and dive into… Chloe Stowe’s Naked Man Facts!
1.) A naked man making me pancakes in the middle of the night can turn me on faster than anything labeled XXX and running on batteries ever could. Even if he’s a lousy cook, cleaning off the batter splattered on his body with my tongue is well worth having to choke down a couple of rubbery hot cakes. Besides, you’ve got to admire a man who puts his “manhood” so close to an open flame just for his woman (or man, whatever the flavor the day may be).
2.) A naked man holding a screwdriver is, for some reason, catastrophically hot. Yes, we’re talking “BOOM!”, folks. A thousand little bits of aroused Chloe is all the poor guy would be left with. (Note to self: Is there such a thing as a hardware fetish? And what is the marketability of such a kink in the publishing world?)
3.) A man who sleeps in the nude will always get a big gold star on his dick from me. Just saying.
4.) A man sunbathing in the nude is just asking to be eaten. He better bring a stack of napkins with him. Things could get messy.
And finally a Chloe Stowe Naked Man Fantasy… Playing the Dukes of Hazzard with my matchbox cars on his ass. Yeehaw!
Ok, silliness is now over. Everybody can return to their normal lives. *grins*
Until tomorrow…
Chloe Stowe
March 26, 2012
"Arrhichion of Phigalia": Blog Five of the -Cock Fight- Dailies
“All he wanted to do was to make this man, this beautiful soul, crest in uncontrolled ecstasy.” (page 80)
Yes, you read that right. “Arrhichion of Phigalia” is the title of Chapter Four of the upcoming Cock Fight. I bet you’ve never read a blog entitled that before? Either you’re intrigued or you’re reliving school nightmares…
School nightmares.
They are the bane of my existence, the thorn in my every side, and my constant companion for the last sixteen years. I kid you not. Every freaking night they crawl up onto my pillow and bore themselves right into my head.
“Good night. Sleep tight. Don’t let the school nightmares… err, bed bugs bite.”
I should embroider me a pillow.
I’ve always dreamed. I’ve always remembered my dreams. Before being cold-cocked by my panic disorder, however, I only viewed them as a usually pleasant distraction from the dark. Kind of like television with a really screwy cable plan.
Now, it’s different.
Now, it’s real… or it was real. I get confused sometimes.
There was a lot of crap I went through at school when mental illness first took its hungry little nibbles out of my brain. I had no idea what was going on.
It was like waking up underwater. It’s a whole new reality you’re met with, a reality where there is no obvious up. And breathing like you’ve done your whole life doesn’t work anymore. It just makes you drown faster.
Yeah, it sucked.
But, really, does it have to suck again in 3D and surround sound every single night?
Apparently it does.
I know there must be a reason behind these dreams, a reason God makes me relive my greatest failure again and again.
There has to be.
But I’ll be the first to admit that my faith takes a heck of a beating with this one.
Until tomorrow…
Chloe Stowe
Yes, you read that right. “Arrhichion of Phigalia” is the title of Chapter Four of the upcoming Cock Fight. I bet you’ve never read a blog entitled that before? Either you’re intrigued or you’re reliving school nightmares…
School nightmares.
They are the bane of my existence, the thorn in my every side, and my constant companion for the last sixteen years. I kid you not. Every freaking night they crawl up onto my pillow and bore themselves right into my head.
“Good night. Sleep tight. Don’t let the school nightmares… err, bed bugs bite.”
I should embroider me a pillow.
I’ve always dreamed. I’ve always remembered my dreams. Before being cold-cocked by my panic disorder, however, I only viewed them as a usually pleasant distraction from the dark. Kind of like television with a really screwy cable plan.
Now, it’s different.
Now, it’s real… or it was real. I get confused sometimes.
There was a lot of crap I went through at school when mental illness first took its hungry little nibbles out of my brain. I had no idea what was going on.
It was like waking up underwater. It’s a whole new reality you’re met with, a reality where there is no obvious up. And breathing like you’ve done your whole life doesn’t work anymore. It just makes you drown faster.
Yeah, it sucked.
But, really, does it have to suck again in 3D and surround sound every single night?
Apparently it does.
I know there must be a reason behind these dreams, a reason God makes me relive my greatest failure again and again.
There has to be.
But I’ll be the first to admit that my faith takes a heck of a beating with this one.
Until tomorrow…
Chloe Stowe
March 25, 2012
"Clooney, Newman and Grant": Blog Four of the -Cock Fight- Dailies
“He wasn’t Rocky, no matter how many times Aldo played that damned “Eye of the Tiger” song.” (page 54)
Cue the orchestra, Day Four of the -Cock Fight- Dailies is about to begin!
Music.
A theme song.
An original score.
I wonder if we all have one? A unique tune or singular symphony that follows each of us around wherever we go? Maybe it plays on a frequency we haven’t learned to hear yet? What if a strum of a guitar string, the note of a flute or the crash of a cymbal are our auditory fingerprints?
What if that was true?
What would the score to your life be?
Would it be something jazzy, something with a swing to it? Would people walk away from you tapping their toes?
Maybe it would have a twang? A J.D. Sumner singing bass? Or a Jenny Lind singing Soprano?
Is your violin plucked pizzicato, or is it stroked like a lover by its bow?
Is there an oboe?
A chorus?
Is it something long and complicated like Eliot’s “Wasteland” put to song?
Or is it simply a psalm sung by a shepherd a thousand years ago?
What is your score?
What is mine?
Mine would be the song of the tree frogs, the clicks and chirps that promise the storm is over and sanity has returned to the heavens…
Until tomorrow…
Chloe Stowe
Chloe Stowe
Cue the orchestra, Day Four of the -Cock Fight- Dailies is about to begin!
Music.
A theme song.
An original score.
I wonder if we all have one? A unique tune or singular symphony that follows each of us around wherever we go? Maybe it plays on a frequency we haven’t learned to hear yet? What if a strum of a guitar string, the note of a flute or the crash of a cymbal are our auditory fingerprints?
What if that was true?
What would the score to your life be?
Would it be something jazzy, something with a swing to it? Would people walk away from you tapping their toes?
Maybe it would have a twang? A J.D. Sumner singing bass? Or a Jenny Lind singing Soprano?
Is your violin plucked pizzicato, or is it stroked like a lover by its bow?
Is there an oboe?
A chorus?
Is it something long and complicated like Eliot’s “Wasteland” put to song?
Or is it simply a psalm sung by a shepherd a thousand years ago?
What is your score?
What is mine?
Mine would be the song of the tree frogs, the clicks and chirps that promise the storm is over and sanity has returned to the heavens…
Until tomorrow…
Chloe Stowe
Chloe Stowe
March 24, 2012
"The Love Story of Isadora": Blog Three of the -Cock Fight- Dailies
“Back and forth he kicked his loafer clad feet under the table, looking all the world like a boy who’d just gotten out of his cereal box a new riddle to solve.” (page 37)
Day Three of the -Cock Fight- Dailies has arrived on your virtual doorstep. Your day may officially begin now.
After yesterday’s blue crab fiasco which ended with my adopting a crustacean into the Chloe Stowe household, I can confidently guarantee you that little such nonsense will be had today. Whether that’s sighs of regret or thunderous applause that I hear echoing out there in the darkness, I do hope you will allow me this one serious moment.
Isadora.
In Cock Fight, Isadora is a character that we barely get to know. Time on the page, just as it is with time on this earth, however, rarely defines the importance of a person on this world. It is Isadora’s presence as much as it is her absence that fuels this love story.
Isadora is based on a friend of the family who lost her struggle with ALS just this last week. The disease, once it struck, took less than two years to take this bright light to heaven. While none of us probably knew her as well as she deserved, her memory will keep us company for many years to come.
Celebrate the time and the health that you have.
Dance in whatever light you can find.
Touch as many lives as you can.
Make the memory people are left of you a grand one.
The number of pages don’t matter; it is what you write on them that does. Write boldly.
Until tomorrow…
Chloe Stowe
Day Three of the -Cock Fight- Dailies has arrived on your virtual doorstep. Your day may officially begin now.
After yesterday’s blue crab fiasco which ended with my adopting a crustacean into the Chloe Stowe household, I can confidently guarantee you that little such nonsense will be had today. Whether that’s sighs of regret or thunderous applause that I hear echoing out there in the darkness, I do hope you will allow me this one serious moment.
Isadora.
In Cock Fight, Isadora is a character that we barely get to know. Time on the page, just as it is with time on this earth, however, rarely defines the importance of a person on this world. It is Isadora’s presence as much as it is her absence that fuels this love story.
Isadora is based on a friend of the family who lost her struggle with ALS just this last week. The disease, once it struck, took less than two years to take this bright light to heaven. While none of us probably knew her as well as she deserved, her memory will keep us company for many years to come.
Celebrate the time and the health that you have.
Dance in whatever light you can find.
Touch as many lives as you can.
Make the memory people are left of you a grand one.
The number of pages don’t matter; it is what you write on them that does. Write boldly.
Until tomorrow…
Chloe Stowe
March 23, 2012
"Blue Crab and Cold Beer": Blog Two of the -Cock Fight- Dailies
“Leverage.” Mitchell didn’t bother sugarcoating it. “That’s what runs my world. You have got to grab it whenever you’re given the chance.” (page 17)
Welcome to Day Two of the -Cock Fight- Dailies, a hopefully enjoyable way for me to introduce you all to my 11th novel, the love story of an underground cage fighter and the man hired to save him.
The excerpt above is from Chapter One, a jaunty little piece called “Blue Crab and Cold Beer.” Every day of this 13 day event you can expect an excerpt and a chapter title. One or both will then be tied into the accompanying blog.
Now, isn’t that a tidy little morsel of fun for you to enjoy every day?...
Ok, here we go…
(hours pass as I stare blankly at the computer)
Or not…
I’m stuck. Leverage, cold beer or blue crab? What am I supposed to do with that?
In theory, the idea of using the chapter titles and excerpt as a “jumping off point” for the blog is a good idea. But come on! A crustacean? A blue one at that? If I detail my drinking a cold beer while I watch Timothy Hutton steal stuff on TNT can I leave off the funny colored sea creature and call this blog done?
I didn’t think so.
Alright. I’ve got to pick one… And as usual, I will pick the hardest and go for the blue crab.
After an in depth study of the ultimate blue crab website (bluecrab.info… yes, there really is such a place and a fine place it is), I have come up with the perfect way to tie in our little sea critter to today’s blog.
http://thewordsandmadnessofchloestowe... from bluecrab.info)
I proudly introduce to one and all Brewster the Big, Bad Blue Crab, the new mascot to the Words and Madness of Chloe Stowe Blog… (silence)… Come on! Every blog’s got to have a cute little creature to lure the wayward readers its way… (crickets chirp)… It is not a cop out! I can defend myself and Brewster and I will…
First, blue is my favorite color… ok, now that one is a cop out.
Second, since I lost my mind twenty years ago, I no longer eat crab. Seafood is just asking for trouble when you’re convinced even drinking the wrong tap water will surely do you in… yeah, don’t expect me to explain that one. Just consider it an endearing quirk and we’ll all move on, ok?
Third, just like blue crab I am an acquired taste… See? Can’t argue with that one, can you?
So, join me in welcoming Brewster the Big, Bad Blue Crab to our little family! And while Brewster might bite, there will be no biting or chewing or swallowing with contented sighs of him.
Until tomorrow, when I better be getting better key words or we’re scrapping this whole crab tamale…
Chloe Stowe… and Brewster
Welcome to Day Two of the -Cock Fight- Dailies, a hopefully enjoyable way for me to introduce you all to my 11th novel, the love story of an underground cage fighter and the man hired to save him.
The excerpt above is from Chapter One, a jaunty little piece called “Blue Crab and Cold Beer.” Every day of this 13 day event you can expect an excerpt and a chapter title. One or both will then be tied into the accompanying blog.
Now, isn’t that a tidy little morsel of fun for you to enjoy every day?...
Ok, here we go…
(hours pass as I stare blankly at the computer)
Or not…
I’m stuck. Leverage, cold beer or blue crab? What am I supposed to do with that?
In theory, the idea of using the chapter titles and excerpt as a “jumping off point” for the blog is a good idea. But come on! A crustacean? A blue one at that? If I detail my drinking a cold beer while I watch Timothy Hutton steal stuff on TNT can I leave off the funny colored sea creature and call this blog done?
I didn’t think so.
Alright. I’ve got to pick one… And as usual, I will pick the hardest and go for the blue crab.
After an in depth study of the ultimate blue crab website (bluecrab.info… yes, there really is such a place and a fine place it is), I have come up with the perfect way to tie in our little sea critter to today’s blog.
http://thewordsandmadnessofchloestowe... from bluecrab.info)
I proudly introduce to one and all Brewster the Big, Bad Blue Crab, the new mascot to the Words and Madness of Chloe Stowe Blog… (silence)… Come on! Every blog’s got to have a cute little creature to lure the wayward readers its way… (crickets chirp)… It is not a cop out! I can defend myself and Brewster and I will…
First, blue is my favorite color… ok, now that one is a cop out.
Second, since I lost my mind twenty years ago, I no longer eat crab. Seafood is just asking for trouble when you’re convinced even drinking the wrong tap water will surely do you in… yeah, don’t expect me to explain that one. Just consider it an endearing quirk and we’ll all move on, ok?
Third, just like blue crab I am an acquired taste… See? Can’t argue with that one, can you?
So, join me in welcoming Brewster the Big, Bad Blue Crab to our little family! And while Brewster might bite, there will be no biting or chewing or swallowing with contented sighs of him.
Until tomorrow, when I better be getting better key words or we’re scrapping this whole crab tamale…
Chloe Stowe… and Brewster
March 22, 2012
"The Cage": Blog One of the -Cock Fight- Dailies
“The air was thick with sweat and beer.” (page 1)
Welcome to the -Cock Fight- Dailies, a 13 day blogging event to celebrate the release of my 11th novel, Cock Fight!
For you old hands at this, you’ll notice that I’m trying something a little different this go around. The title of each day’s blog will be one of the chapter titles from the novel. Immediately following is an excerpt from that chapter, a tease as to what you can expect when you pick up Cock Fight. The accompanying blog will somehow incorporate either the excerpt or the title into its daily theme.
I’d love to hear feedback, so please don’t hesitate to comment. I will gladly respond to each one, hopefully honing my response skills to razor sharpness (a skill, I’m sure, will come in handy in case of petulance, plague or other Biblical-sized disasters that might come calling).
Now, let’s get this party started!
Cages have always interested me. I think they interest us all in some manner. I, however, will not attempt to speak for everyone. This is all me, a woman heavily medicated for chronic panic attacks the last 20 years, a woman crazy in love with life in spite of being stuck in the quicksand of mental illness. So, please feel free to color your opinion of me and my thoughts in this light. I don’t mind.
The concept of cages is intriguing. They are meant to keep a person from moving from a spot but not to stop them from moving. Struggle and crawl and claw all you like. There’s no way in hell you’re making it to that door you can see across the room that means freedom. It’s a particular kind of cruel.
I’m sure a lot of my “regulars” know where I’m going with this. Mental illness is a cage. It’s bars of steel around your brain. Worse yet, they’re invisible bars; no one can see them and only you can feel them. Unfortunately, half the time people won’t believe in what they can’t see. Imagine half of the world standing outside your jail cell constantly taunting you to come on outside and play. Some even throw little trinkets of affection at you, promising you more if you’d just slip between those bars.
Yeah, color me bitter. But color me so lightly.
There are so many other crayons, brighter more beautiful crayons coloring my life. Look behind the bars and you’ll see them. Periwinkle, cornflower, copper, magenta, meadow, marigold… they’re all there. Sometimes, you just have to look deep within the cage’s shadows to find them.
I will leave you here for today wishing you cornflower blue skies out your window or between your bars, whichever the case may be.
Until tomorrow…
Chloe Stowe
Welcome to the -Cock Fight- Dailies, a 13 day blogging event to celebrate the release of my 11th novel, Cock Fight!
For you old hands at this, you’ll notice that I’m trying something a little different this go around. The title of each day’s blog will be one of the chapter titles from the novel. Immediately following is an excerpt from that chapter, a tease as to what you can expect when you pick up Cock Fight. The accompanying blog will somehow incorporate either the excerpt or the title into its daily theme.
I’d love to hear feedback, so please don’t hesitate to comment. I will gladly respond to each one, hopefully honing my response skills to razor sharpness (a skill, I’m sure, will come in handy in case of petulance, plague or other Biblical-sized disasters that might come calling).
Now, let’s get this party started!
Cages have always interested me. I think they interest us all in some manner. I, however, will not attempt to speak for everyone. This is all me, a woman heavily medicated for chronic panic attacks the last 20 years, a woman crazy in love with life in spite of being stuck in the quicksand of mental illness. So, please feel free to color your opinion of me and my thoughts in this light. I don’t mind.
The concept of cages is intriguing. They are meant to keep a person from moving from a spot but not to stop them from moving. Struggle and crawl and claw all you like. There’s no way in hell you’re making it to that door you can see across the room that means freedom. It’s a particular kind of cruel.
I’m sure a lot of my “regulars” know where I’m going with this. Mental illness is a cage. It’s bars of steel around your brain. Worse yet, they’re invisible bars; no one can see them and only you can feel them. Unfortunately, half the time people won’t believe in what they can’t see. Imagine half of the world standing outside your jail cell constantly taunting you to come on outside and play. Some even throw little trinkets of affection at you, promising you more if you’d just slip between those bars.
Yeah, color me bitter. But color me so lightly.
There are so many other crayons, brighter more beautiful crayons coloring my life. Look behind the bars and you’ll see them. Periwinkle, cornflower, copper, magenta, meadow, marigold… they’re all there. Sometimes, you just have to look deep within the cage’s shadows to find them.
I will leave you here for today wishing you cornflower blue skies out your window or between your bars, whichever the case may be.
Until tomorrow…
Chloe Stowe
February 16, 2012
"My Stolen Stick" - Final Day of The Stripped Asset Blogs
Release Day! It’s an odd, odd day in my world. As previously noted in my blogging history, excitement equals panic in my odd, odd head. So while I may be bouncing, bubbling and fist-pumping the air in “Hell yeah! You did it!” fervor, my mind is busy calculating my demise.
For example (and don’t you just love my examples?)… the obsessive tendencies I have to beat back with a stick every normal day, steal my stick and beat me soundly in the head with it. It would be laughable if it wasn’t quite so degrading.
I check my publisher’s website. I check the AREbooks website. I check Amazon, GoodReads, my website, my blogs, the sales of my other novels. I google myself. Then I google my book. Then I google all variations of my book’s title with my name. And then I bing it… Ten minutes later (I’ve got furiously fast fingers when my OCD takes over), I start it all again… and again… and again.
Odd, wouldn’t you say?
I’m going to try to be better today. I’m scheduling times that I will force myself to write on my next novel, times to work on my outlines for upcoming projects, times to rework old stuff into possibly publishable new stuff, times to work on the next installment of the Hellesgate series, times to…
See a problem?
Yeah, I’ve now OCD’d my writing way out of control.
Damn. My mind is tricky.
Well, while I battle with my gray matter, I offer to you an excerpt of Stripped Asset in hopes it will nudge you just enough to add Heath and Lachlan to your libraries. I think it’s a nice introduction to the characters. Enjoy!…
Chapter One: In the Orchestra’s Absence
Barefoot and still warm from his shower, Lachlan Hayes stepped out onto his deck and smiled. He would never get used to this spectacular view.
The Pacific Ocean stretched out before his beachside house like a skein of dark blue silk undulating with wave and wind. It was a million dollar view, one the screenwriter had paid $5.2 million for last Tuesday. Chill blades rolled across his bare skin at just the thought of spending that amount of money. He had come a long, long way.
Thirty two year old Lachlan Hayes had always played the role of the loner. He had been born to it, actually. Being an only child of a couple infatuated solely with each other, Lachlan’s formative years had held a certain free-form quality to them, a childhood that was great for the imagination but lousy for the foundation of friendships.
Despite this Lachlan flourished. He excelled at all his private schools. His summer tutors lauded his dedication to the literary arts and could do nothing but applaud the enthralling, complex plays ten year old Lachlan would write for his toy soldiers and teddy bears. It was at these tutors’ behest that the boy’s parents had sent their child to a prestigious arts academy in New York City. It was a move that would do nothing but say good things about such self-sacrificing parents.
Lachlan lived with a housekeeper in his own studio apartment from the age of twelve to eighteen.
At eighteen years and one day, Lachlan bolted to Berkeley. And while he had his friends and drinking buddies during his college years, he found himself spending his summers and holiday breaks relishing his time alone. He was comfortable within his own skin, a fact that peeved his girlfriends and bothered the shit out of his one boyfriend.
Sex was great. Lachlan loved sex. He could happily do it all day and all night for six days out of seven, but that seventh day he needed some time alone. At times, he craved the solitude, thriving in those hours with only pen and paper by his side.
It came as no surprise that he had as of yet to have a serious relationship.
The lack of that significant other in his life, however, wasn’t even a speck of disappointment in his existence this fleeting afternoon. The southern California sun soon rid him of the $5.2 million goose bumps. Her hands were warm and guileless across his chest and arms, cocooning him swiftly in the security of her heat.
The lawn chair of teak and dark blue cotton called to his still half asleep brain, promising a long late afternoon nap under the clear June skies.
In nothing but pajama bottoms, Lachlan rubbed his short thick mop of blond hair and shuffled across the patio, surrendering to the chaise’s siren call.
As his light blue eyes began to flutter closed, he thought to himself what an absurdly perfect day it had been.
After an all-nighter of tweaking an already sold script, Lachlan had collapsed across the white down comforter of his king-sized bed just as dawn trickled through his windows. Until four o’clock, even the tiny, annoying twinges of hunger hadn’t awakened him from his deep and dreamless sleep.
A power bar, a glass of milk and a forty-five minute shower then followed.
Now, he was going to let Lady Sun do the job of drying his body and hair for him.
Life was indeed perfect.
****
Life stunk for Heath Isles at the moment. As the twenty-seven year old landscape architect slammed his truck into park on the pristine, hill-clinging residential street, he wadded up his latest speeding ticket and tossed it into the back of his cab.
Grabbing a sketchpad, a notebook of already copious notes, and his camera, Heath climbed out of his truck and immediately cursed the time.
“Where the fuck did those two hours go?”
It was a rhetorical question of course. Even the rose bushes along the side of his new client’s house knew the answer. Traffic was hell in California. With the day that he was having, Heath wouldn’t have been surprised if he tripped over one of Dante’s rings about now.
Determined not to add a broken knee to the day’s cache of goodies, the man slowed his pace as he picked his way through the overgrown path that led to the house’s private beach.
He had never met Lachlan Hayes himself, since the writer’s manager had handled all the details and the initial introduction to the much neglected grounds through a couple dozen 8x10’s, Heath just hoped that Mr. Hayes understood screwed up work hours.
Heath Isles could not afford to lose this job.
Ducking under a broken limb of a pinion pine, Heath came to a full stop as the beach finally came into view.
The property was stunning. It had all the bones any landscape architect liked to work with and just enough of the overgrown, neglected quality to it to give the architect’s creative juices a healthy jolt of “I’m broken. Fix me.”
Heath had always loved the fixer-uppers the best. While he had had his share of new construction commissions, the properties of faded glory or untapped potential were his favorite types to dive into. He would then devote all his skills to the project until the land’s God-given beauty was revealed.
Heath smirked at the thought. His job was hardly as haughty or important as all that sounded. Just because he had the degrees to back up his ideas, he knew he wasn’t any different than most gardeners who just wanted their places to look good. It was exactly this ability to see his work through the eyes of both the “common man” and the “aristocracy” that had made his career so successful. Heath Isles appealed to everyone.
Heath outright laughed at that. The California court system sure as hell didn’t find him appealing and his father’s ex-wives out and out hated “every single one of his measly, greedy guts.” Ex-wife number one had a knack for color in her hatred. While ex-wife number two had perfected the uppity sneer to the point that words to the lower half of society had been deemed utterly useless and wasteful for years. She merely pointed at someone that disturbed her upper crust sensibilities and let her kennel of lawyers loose on their sorry asses.
If it wasn’t for his little brother, Heath would have gladly ignored his ex step-moms’ existences altogether. As it was, however, Heath now found himself in a heated custody battle for the eleven year old Clay Kilduff. A brother Heath didn’t even know existed six months ago.
One year ago, the father Heath never knew, either growing up or at any time in his adult life died, leaving Clay behind as his sole heir. Clay’s mother had died when he was just a baby. The boy had grown up in a string of boarding schools with only holiday visits from his father. It wasn’t until six months after learning the news about his father that Heath accidentally learned about Clay. The boy stood to gain a huge inheritance. It was the reason why he was being fought over like hot property by the two very greedy but very rich ex-wives.
Clay couldn’t be allowed to grow up in either woman’s house hold. They both viewed the eleven year old as nothing more than a financial asset, one that some garden boy/thief was trying to strip out of each of their bank accounts. Love and affection were nothing but messy means to the end as far as the ex-wives were concerned. They only brought out these foul emotions when in front of the judge or other influential members of the court. Of course, if the press happened to stop by, they would roll out a particularly stunning version of motherhood for the cameras to capture. They were just that kind of ladies.
Heath’s declarations of affection and concern about his young brother’s well-being were turned around by the ex-wives to appear as nothing more than the machinations of a gold-digger who was seeing his only opportunity to reach the higher echelons of the financial world slip through his grubby fingers.
The “dirty, money-hungry bastard” theme had become an early favorite in the child custody hearing. Less than a week into the court proceedings they were already becoming slimy. Heath didn’t want to drag this disaster out so he played what he thought would be the ace up his sleeve. Heath signed a legal document stating that he would never touch a dime of his brother’s money. He would provide for Clay by his own financial means. Clay’s inheritance would stay completely untouched until, as their father’s will provided until Clay turned twenty-five. The brothers’ lives wouldn’t be rich, but they would be good, and Clay would always, always know that he was loved every day of his life.
Unfortunately, Heath’s ace made little impression on the ex-wives or their attorneys. They simply argued that Heath would just be biding his time, earning Clay’s loyalty until the boy reached his financial maturity. Then, the women held, Heath would strike, and Clay would be helpless to turn down the brother who had raised him.
Heath had been struck fairly speechless at that response and had decided that any other grand gestures he’d leave in his back pocket until the bitches weren’t looking. Running off to Mexico with Clay was one of those gestures. It was a very, very last resort and had only entered his head as a crumb of a half-baked, crazy idea. It was there, however. The possibility was there and growing more and more likely after every bad day in court.
There were a lot of days in court to be bad, too.
Last Monday, the hearing had entered its fifth week. Every motion that could be filed was filed in triplicate by the ladies’ squadron of lawyers. Delays were asked for and received with such regularity that Heath was beginning to suspect that the judge had a weekly lunch date set up with each of the attorneys, except Heath’s own, of course.
“They’re gutting you, son. Trying to bleed you dry.” Heath’s lawyer had colorfully confirmed his own suspicions. “Those women know you’ve got a damned limited budget. They’re just going to wait you out until your money well runs dry.” Unfortunately, Heath’s lawyer was more adept at turning all things legal into cowboy-ese than actually winning a case, but he was all Heath could afford.
The ladies’ “gutting” technique was sadly running right on their malevolent schedule. Heath had to work a stupid amount of hours at some really stupid jobs. While he had to be careful to take jobs that would not hurt his professional reputation as a certified landscape architect, he was not beneath vicious amounts of manual labor. He quickly found that by doing most of the “grunt work” of his commissions himself, he was able to save a healthy chunk of the fees. Admittedly, he was pushing his body and his amazing stamina to its outer limits, but he was pulling enough cash in to keep his lawyer happy in cowboy boots and trail mix.
It was worth it.
Clay was worth it.
With that determination alone, Heath Isles made his way down to the shore.
I hope you enjoyed it and that it tickled all of those good buttons inside of you.
Thank you again for reading and taking time to share a little bit of my world. I will now hand the stick over to my OCD and see what craziness this release day will wrought.
Until next time…
Chloe Stowe
http://www.ravenousromance.com/m/m/st...
For example (and don’t you just love my examples?)… the obsessive tendencies I have to beat back with a stick every normal day, steal my stick and beat me soundly in the head with it. It would be laughable if it wasn’t quite so degrading.
I check my publisher’s website. I check the AREbooks website. I check Amazon, GoodReads, my website, my blogs, the sales of my other novels. I google myself. Then I google my book. Then I google all variations of my book’s title with my name. And then I bing it… Ten minutes later (I’ve got furiously fast fingers when my OCD takes over), I start it all again… and again… and again.
Odd, wouldn’t you say?
I’m going to try to be better today. I’m scheduling times that I will force myself to write on my next novel, times to work on my outlines for upcoming projects, times to rework old stuff into possibly publishable new stuff, times to work on the next installment of the Hellesgate series, times to…
See a problem?
Yeah, I’ve now OCD’d my writing way out of control.
Damn. My mind is tricky.
Well, while I battle with my gray matter, I offer to you an excerpt of Stripped Asset in hopes it will nudge you just enough to add Heath and Lachlan to your libraries. I think it’s a nice introduction to the characters. Enjoy!…
Chapter One: In the Orchestra’s Absence
Barefoot and still warm from his shower, Lachlan Hayes stepped out onto his deck and smiled. He would never get used to this spectacular view.
The Pacific Ocean stretched out before his beachside house like a skein of dark blue silk undulating with wave and wind. It was a million dollar view, one the screenwriter had paid $5.2 million for last Tuesday. Chill blades rolled across his bare skin at just the thought of spending that amount of money. He had come a long, long way.
Thirty two year old Lachlan Hayes had always played the role of the loner. He had been born to it, actually. Being an only child of a couple infatuated solely with each other, Lachlan’s formative years had held a certain free-form quality to them, a childhood that was great for the imagination but lousy for the foundation of friendships.
Despite this Lachlan flourished. He excelled at all his private schools. His summer tutors lauded his dedication to the literary arts and could do nothing but applaud the enthralling, complex plays ten year old Lachlan would write for his toy soldiers and teddy bears. It was at these tutors’ behest that the boy’s parents had sent their child to a prestigious arts academy in New York City. It was a move that would do nothing but say good things about such self-sacrificing parents.
Lachlan lived with a housekeeper in his own studio apartment from the age of twelve to eighteen.
At eighteen years and one day, Lachlan bolted to Berkeley. And while he had his friends and drinking buddies during his college years, he found himself spending his summers and holiday breaks relishing his time alone. He was comfortable within his own skin, a fact that peeved his girlfriends and bothered the shit out of his one boyfriend.
Sex was great. Lachlan loved sex. He could happily do it all day and all night for six days out of seven, but that seventh day he needed some time alone. At times, he craved the solitude, thriving in those hours with only pen and paper by his side.
It came as no surprise that he had as of yet to have a serious relationship.
The lack of that significant other in his life, however, wasn’t even a speck of disappointment in his existence this fleeting afternoon. The southern California sun soon rid him of the $5.2 million goose bumps. Her hands were warm and guileless across his chest and arms, cocooning him swiftly in the security of her heat.
The lawn chair of teak and dark blue cotton called to his still half asleep brain, promising a long late afternoon nap under the clear June skies.
In nothing but pajama bottoms, Lachlan rubbed his short thick mop of blond hair and shuffled across the patio, surrendering to the chaise’s siren call.
As his light blue eyes began to flutter closed, he thought to himself what an absurdly perfect day it had been.
After an all-nighter of tweaking an already sold script, Lachlan had collapsed across the white down comforter of his king-sized bed just as dawn trickled through his windows. Until four o’clock, even the tiny, annoying twinges of hunger hadn’t awakened him from his deep and dreamless sleep.
A power bar, a glass of milk and a forty-five minute shower then followed.
Now, he was going to let Lady Sun do the job of drying his body and hair for him.
Life was indeed perfect.
****
Life stunk for Heath Isles at the moment. As the twenty-seven year old landscape architect slammed his truck into park on the pristine, hill-clinging residential street, he wadded up his latest speeding ticket and tossed it into the back of his cab.
Grabbing a sketchpad, a notebook of already copious notes, and his camera, Heath climbed out of his truck and immediately cursed the time.
“Where the fuck did those two hours go?”
It was a rhetorical question of course. Even the rose bushes along the side of his new client’s house knew the answer. Traffic was hell in California. With the day that he was having, Heath wouldn’t have been surprised if he tripped over one of Dante’s rings about now.
Determined not to add a broken knee to the day’s cache of goodies, the man slowed his pace as he picked his way through the overgrown path that led to the house’s private beach.
He had never met Lachlan Hayes himself, since the writer’s manager had handled all the details and the initial introduction to the much neglected grounds through a couple dozen 8x10’s, Heath just hoped that Mr. Hayes understood screwed up work hours.
Heath Isles could not afford to lose this job.
Ducking under a broken limb of a pinion pine, Heath came to a full stop as the beach finally came into view.
The property was stunning. It had all the bones any landscape architect liked to work with and just enough of the overgrown, neglected quality to it to give the architect’s creative juices a healthy jolt of “I’m broken. Fix me.”
Heath had always loved the fixer-uppers the best. While he had had his share of new construction commissions, the properties of faded glory or untapped potential were his favorite types to dive into. He would then devote all his skills to the project until the land’s God-given beauty was revealed.
Heath smirked at the thought. His job was hardly as haughty or important as all that sounded. Just because he had the degrees to back up his ideas, he knew he wasn’t any different than most gardeners who just wanted their places to look good. It was exactly this ability to see his work through the eyes of both the “common man” and the “aristocracy” that had made his career so successful. Heath Isles appealed to everyone.
Heath outright laughed at that. The California court system sure as hell didn’t find him appealing and his father’s ex-wives out and out hated “every single one of his measly, greedy guts.” Ex-wife number one had a knack for color in her hatred. While ex-wife number two had perfected the uppity sneer to the point that words to the lower half of society had been deemed utterly useless and wasteful for years. She merely pointed at someone that disturbed her upper crust sensibilities and let her kennel of lawyers loose on their sorry asses.
If it wasn’t for his little brother, Heath would have gladly ignored his ex step-moms’ existences altogether. As it was, however, Heath now found himself in a heated custody battle for the eleven year old Clay Kilduff. A brother Heath didn’t even know existed six months ago.
One year ago, the father Heath never knew, either growing up or at any time in his adult life died, leaving Clay behind as his sole heir. Clay’s mother had died when he was just a baby. The boy had grown up in a string of boarding schools with only holiday visits from his father. It wasn’t until six months after learning the news about his father that Heath accidentally learned about Clay. The boy stood to gain a huge inheritance. It was the reason why he was being fought over like hot property by the two very greedy but very rich ex-wives.
Clay couldn’t be allowed to grow up in either woman’s house hold. They both viewed the eleven year old as nothing more than a financial asset, one that some garden boy/thief was trying to strip out of each of their bank accounts. Love and affection were nothing but messy means to the end as far as the ex-wives were concerned. They only brought out these foul emotions when in front of the judge or other influential members of the court. Of course, if the press happened to stop by, they would roll out a particularly stunning version of motherhood for the cameras to capture. They were just that kind of ladies.
Heath’s declarations of affection and concern about his young brother’s well-being were turned around by the ex-wives to appear as nothing more than the machinations of a gold-digger who was seeing his only opportunity to reach the higher echelons of the financial world slip through his grubby fingers.
The “dirty, money-hungry bastard” theme had become an early favorite in the child custody hearing. Less than a week into the court proceedings they were already becoming slimy. Heath didn’t want to drag this disaster out so he played what he thought would be the ace up his sleeve. Heath signed a legal document stating that he would never touch a dime of his brother’s money. He would provide for Clay by his own financial means. Clay’s inheritance would stay completely untouched until, as their father’s will provided until Clay turned twenty-five. The brothers’ lives wouldn’t be rich, but they would be good, and Clay would always, always know that he was loved every day of his life.
Unfortunately, Heath’s ace made little impression on the ex-wives or their attorneys. They simply argued that Heath would just be biding his time, earning Clay’s loyalty until the boy reached his financial maturity. Then, the women held, Heath would strike, and Clay would be helpless to turn down the brother who had raised him.
Heath had been struck fairly speechless at that response and had decided that any other grand gestures he’d leave in his back pocket until the bitches weren’t looking. Running off to Mexico with Clay was one of those gestures. It was a very, very last resort and had only entered his head as a crumb of a half-baked, crazy idea. It was there, however. The possibility was there and growing more and more likely after every bad day in court.
There were a lot of days in court to be bad, too.
Last Monday, the hearing had entered its fifth week. Every motion that could be filed was filed in triplicate by the ladies’ squadron of lawyers. Delays were asked for and received with such regularity that Heath was beginning to suspect that the judge had a weekly lunch date set up with each of the attorneys, except Heath’s own, of course.
“They’re gutting you, son. Trying to bleed you dry.” Heath’s lawyer had colorfully confirmed his own suspicions. “Those women know you’ve got a damned limited budget. They’re just going to wait you out until your money well runs dry.” Unfortunately, Heath’s lawyer was more adept at turning all things legal into cowboy-ese than actually winning a case, but he was all Heath could afford.
The ladies’ “gutting” technique was sadly running right on their malevolent schedule. Heath had to work a stupid amount of hours at some really stupid jobs. While he had to be careful to take jobs that would not hurt his professional reputation as a certified landscape architect, he was not beneath vicious amounts of manual labor. He quickly found that by doing most of the “grunt work” of his commissions himself, he was able to save a healthy chunk of the fees. Admittedly, he was pushing his body and his amazing stamina to its outer limits, but he was pulling enough cash in to keep his lawyer happy in cowboy boots and trail mix.
It was worth it.
Clay was worth it.
With that determination alone, Heath Isles made his way down to the shore.
I hope you enjoyed it and that it tickled all of those good buttons inside of you.
Thank you again for reading and taking time to share a little bit of my world. I will now hand the stick over to my OCD and see what craziness this release day will wrought.
Until next time…
Chloe Stowe
http://www.ravenousromance.com/m/m/st...
February 15, 2012
"Bloodhounds in Silver Lightning" - Day Two of The Stripped Asset Blogs
Ahh, Wednesday. “Hump” day has a whole different meaning for us romantic smut aficionados, doesn’t it? Eye-humping, leg-humping, dry-humping - just the “hump” alone puts a little more spring to our midweek getty-up… Or at least it could if we chose to look at it that way.
Optimism. The silver lining to all life’s maelstroms. It’s always there, or so they tell me, but sometimes it’s just damned hard to find.
Today is about making that pro-active choice to search out that silver. Consider me a blood-hound with an insatiable craving for silver. Nose to the ground, I will sniff it out.
I’m good at this. Just watch.
Due to my mental illness, I can’t work, not a normal 9 to 5 job at least. Heck, I can’t even manage a 10 hour a week job without completely losing it and being swallowed whole by panic. For someone who has been an over-achiever, the poster child for a hard worker, the girl with the big, big dreams, this particular life wrinkle is darn to take.
The chance for financial independence is literally shot to the outskirts of hell.
It’s oftentimes degrading, always demoralizing, and for a woman who has a wild, soul-defining streak of independence running inside of her it is aggravating, embarrassing and sucks rocks, big time.
So where is the silver?
The silver is right here. The newest vein of it is entitled Stripped Asset.
Without my mental illness, without the stubborn, never say die streak of independence that even now flows through me, there would be no Chloe Stowe. Sure, that might not be such a great loss to the world. Honestly, smut writers? There’s a million of them… but without Chloe Stowe, there would only be 999,999 of them. I’m one-one millionth of an industry that allows people to lose themselves in romance and passion for a few hours at a sitting. Not too bad a place to be, really.
So my novels are my silver linings. The silver in them might be small, miniscule even, but the worth is there.
And who knows? Tiny silver veins might one day, perhaps, lead to the grand-daddy of all silver strikes… I can only hope and keep my bloodhound nose to the ground.
See? I told you I was pretty good at this.
For your patience in reading that, I now proudly give you the chapter titles to my 10th novel Stripped Asset, releasing tomorrow…
Chapter One: In the Orchestra’s Absence
Chapter Two: Watershed Moments
Chapter Three: Of Sweet Oblivion
Chapter Four: Hellhounds on the Ocean’s Shore
Chapter Five: The Mysterious Case of Cinderella
Chapter Six: Voices in the Hall
Chapter Seven: Savory Morsels of Ecstasy
Chapter Eight: John Wayne
Chapter Nine: Maestro, If You Please
This one is a joy, folks. Dangerously hot and endearingly sweet. I hope you will enjoy this tenth silver streak of mine. Know that every word you read puts a little more shine to that elusive lining.
Until tomorrow (Release Day!)…
Chloe Stowe
Optimism. The silver lining to all life’s maelstroms. It’s always there, or so they tell me, but sometimes it’s just damned hard to find.
Today is about making that pro-active choice to search out that silver. Consider me a blood-hound with an insatiable craving for silver. Nose to the ground, I will sniff it out.
I’m good at this. Just watch.
Due to my mental illness, I can’t work, not a normal 9 to 5 job at least. Heck, I can’t even manage a 10 hour a week job without completely losing it and being swallowed whole by panic. For someone who has been an over-achiever, the poster child for a hard worker, the girl with the big, big dreams, this particular life wrinkle is darn to take.
The chance for financial independence is literally shot to the outskirts of hell.
It’s oftentimes degrading, always demoralizing, and for a woman who has a wild, soul-defining streak of independence running inside of her it is aggravating, embarrassing and sucks rocks, big time.
So where is the silver?
The silver is right here. The newest vein of it is entitled Stripped Asset.
Without my mental illness, without the stubborn, never say die streak of independence that even now flows through me, there would be no Chloe Stowe. Sure, that might not be such a great loss to the world. Honestly, smut writers? There’s a million of them… but without Chloe Stowe, there would only be 999,999 of them. I’m one-one millionth of an industry that allows people to lose themselves in romance and passion for a few hours at a sitting. Not too bad a place to be, really.
So my novels are my silver linings. The silver in them might be small, miniscule even, but the worth is there.
And who knows? Tiny silver veins might one day, perhaps, lead to the grand-daddy of all silver strikes… I can only hope and keep my bloodhound nose to the ground.
See? I told you I was pretty good at this.
For your patience in reading that, I now proudly give you the chapter titles to my 10th novel Stripped Asset, releasing tomorrow…
Chapter One: In the Orchestra’s Absence
Chapter Two: Watershed Moments
Chapter Three: Of Sweet Oblivion
Chapter Four: Hellhounds on the Ocean’s Shore
Chapter Five: The Mysterious Case of Cinderella
Chapter Six: Voices in the Hall
Chapter Seven: Savory Morsels of Ecstasy
Chapter Eight: John Wayne
Chapter Nine: Maestro, If You Please
This one is a joy, folks. Dangerously hot and endearingly sweet. I hope you will enjoy this tenth silver streak of mine. Know that every word you read puts a little more shine to that elusive lining.
Until tomorrow (Release Day!)…
Chloe Stowe
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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