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Prologue: The Storm Gloats as the Dead Man Sleeps

“The candlelight was failing.” (page 1)

 

And so it begins… and ends.

 No, no, nobody rush to dial 9-1-1. My mental “irregularities” have not taken me to that point. I am talking storylines here, folks. I’m talking characters who have been living inside of my head for over a year and a half. I am talking Hellesgate, Kansas closing up its shop windows and everybody going back home.

 *sighs*

 My thirteenth novel, A Torch Kept, concluding the Hellesgate Series will be released this Thursday, September 20 by Ravenous Romance. It is the fifth installment of the first series I have ever written. Talk about bittersweet…

*kicks herself in the butt*

 My THIRTEENTH novel!! Wow, ok, just wow! Who’d have thunk it? Certainly not my ninth grade English teacher. Hah! Stick that in your ear, Mr. James.

 *slaps herself hard on the side of the head and checks that the meds have been taken on schedule*

 Getting back to business… May I please welcome you to Day One of Hellesgate’s Long Goodbye. In short, we’re calling this puppy ATK (A Torch Kept) Day 1. Yes, this is a twitter-ification. Ahh, I wonder what Mr. James has to say about Twitter-ese? I can hear his teeth grinding right now. Hee-hee.

 *checks warning labels on meds for “bitter-laced childhood regression”*

 Moving quickly on… For anybody new to this little venture I have dubbed preview blogging, here’s what you can expect in the next five days. Every day you’ll get a blog entry complete with 2 chapter titles and 2 tiny excerpts from each chapter of A Torch Kept (out this Thursday, did I mention?). Along with these juicy tidbits, my blog of the day’s subject matter will be based on that days titles or excerpts. Got it? If not, don’t sweat it. Just follow along and you’ll get the swing of things real soon.

 Hardcore fans might notice that I’m doubling up on the titles and excerpts this time around. Well, release day kind of happened a lot quicker than I had thought, so, yes, I’ve essentially been caught with my pants down… Yes, appropriate for a smut writer, I know.

 No worries, though. You will still get your fill of author trivia, hysteria, manic thoughts and chicanery. Our ride might be short this time, my friends, but damn will it be bumpy!

 To start things off with a roar, I am proud to present to you the back cover blurb to my THIRTEENTH novel, A Torch Kept…

 

Six years have passed since a lone house burning on the Kansas horizon brought Matthew Archer into Cane Summerfield’s life. The love of the New York real estate mogul and the wounded Iraqi War hero has steadily burned brighter with each passing year, enveloping marriage, parenthood, tragedy and triumph.

 Nothing, however, had prepared the lovers for Memphis.

 The last Archer brother has been found.

 Matthew and Cane travel to Tennessee, hoping to finally reunite their fractured family. But Fate has other plans.

The final story of the Hellesgate Series has been written. Endings are had, beginnings made. Who will survive the storm that is life?

It is said that a torch kept alight through a storm will burn forever. Is love such a fire when death is the night?

 

 Intense, huh? Got you circling Thursday on your calendar with a big red pen, right? This one is super good, ladies and gentlemen. You’re going to love it.

 And never fear, just because Hellesgate might be shuttering its doors and windows doesn’t mean Chloe Stowe is cutting a trail. I am thrilled to announce that I have just signed with Ravenous to write my 14th novel… a novel which you’ll get the name and a sneak peek of at the end of ATK Days.

 Yes, that’s right, Mr. James, my 14th novel… Put that in your pipe and smoke it!

Until tomorrow, when hopefully clearer heads will prevail…

Chloe Stowe

 

Chapter One: The Riot of Silence

“Dimas Cabral slept. The dreams, as always, came quickly and vibrantly. Being a strange cocktail of memory, fantasy, and something much more, Dimas never tried to understand them. He simply imbibed them hungrily, hoping to wake hours later punch-drunk with the taste of Alanyo on his lips.” (page 14)

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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

Day One has been thrust upon us with nary a warning, like a blizzard that jumps out from behind the innocent looking mountains yelling “Surprise!” in Icelandic tongues. Well, grab your parkas and your mittens, folks. This is going to be one heck of a super slalom-esque previewing ride!

Ready?

Here we go!

Stripped Asset is my 10th published novel, and honestly it is one of my very favorites. The characters of Heath and Lachlan just wrote themselves, weaving a simple romantic tale into a dynamic, hopefully unforgettable read. Here’s why (in lovely synopsis/sell copy form)…

Love is rarely played more beautifully than to the heartfelt strings of sacrifice…

Thirty-two year old Lachlan Hayes is a successful Hollywood screenwriter who’s just bought a beautiful but neglected house on the sea. Words are his life; imagination his playground. But he’s never known love as more than a meeting of hungry bodies in the night.

Heath Isles is a twenty-seven year old landscape architect whose every moment is spent fighting for custody of his little brother. The work that pays for this legal battle is Heath’s life, giving his brother the future he deserves is his calling. But Heath’s never known true love as more than a common prelude to a common divorce.

When Lachlan hires Heath to renovate his beachfront property, a passion fierce and playful is alighted and a romance true and embattled is born.

Theirs is a story of irony, a story of when surrendering to the odds is love’s only hope of survival.

Theirs is a tale of a sacrifice made and kept.

Theirs is a song of hope and happy endings.

Excuse me while I bounce around in utter excitement. Please feel free to join in. The more bouncers the merrier, I always say. *grins*

Tomorrow, I will give you all the chapter titles and their excerpts in one grand rush of previewing goodiness. (I, too, am having to hurriedly throw on the gloves and big furry boots. The blizzard is unexpectedly barreling down on me as well… Ahh, the publishing world!)

As for all my faithful blog readers who have been following the escapades of my teetering mental health, an update awaits you tomorrow as well. I’d add more today but a good portion of my working brain matter leaked out of my head this morning as Tuesdays and I rarely get along. Don’t ask. I don’t have a heck of a clue as to why. You know, somebody could write a darn fine doctorate thesis on the mysterious mis-workings of my mind. Anything for science after all, right?

Well, I will leave you here for today. I hope everyone is well kitted out in their winter wear as the eye of the previewing blizzard hits tomorrow!

Until then…

Chloe Stowe and her enigmatic brain

Available February 9, 2012!

Surprise!

 Chloe Stowe has a Valentine’s Day novella!  

 Shirtless, sculpted and oiled male medics are on standby at each exit for any of your respiratory concerns.

 “Hard Candy, Soft Cream” will be released tomorrow at Ravenous Romance just in time to get all your juices simmering and steaming for the big day next week. So, today, my friends, you get a loaded, double decker of a preview for my first ever Valentine’s story.

 *excuse me while I put on my sideshow barker hat…*

 You will get today not only a titillating, tantalizing synopsis of 20K words of pure romantic bliss, you will also receive 5, yes, count them ladies and gents, 5 chapter titles!

 Wow!

And, don’t catch your breath just yet folks, you are also going to get an extended excerpt and… *cue the guy with the drums*… a cover!

 Whoa. I think I’ll be needing one of those virile medics myself.

 So, without further adieu, let’s get this party started!

 First up, the synopsis…

 Join Mercer and Saul from the novel Hard Wood, Soft Heart in a standalone Valentine’s Day novella that will bring heat, tears and laughter to your cold winter days.

Mercer Braun is a former baseball player whose career was stolen from him by a chronic heart condition.

Saul Tidewater is a heart surgeon who moved to Las Vegas to escape a bitter divorce and the tragedy at the break-up’s core.

They’ve only known each other for nine months, but their love pulses strong and their passion burns magnificently.

 But when a secret is kept on Valentine’s Day not only is the strength of their relationship put to the test, but their very lives are put at risk.

This is a story of how timeless love can rise up out of the ashes of tragedy.

 This is the story of how eternal love is born and kept.

And, no, you will not have to run back and read your copy of Hard Wood, Soft Heart. This is truly a standalone story with just a couple of my favorite guys coming along for the ride.

Let me warn you though:  this story is a genuine, no nonsense heart tugger. It’s going to pull some strings that may not have been strung in years.

Ok, up next are the 5 chapter titles! You’re giggling with excitement, aren’t you? I know I’m giggling but I think mine’s basically on my psych meds kicking in.

Chapter One: Under Neptune’s Gaze

Chapter Two: Pennies in the Fountain

Chapter Three: Two Boys in the Sandbox

Chapter Four: Flowers at Your Feet

Chapter Five: Playing in the Twilight

I love to tease and entice with my chapter titles. Hopefully these five have done just that.

And if that isn’t enough to tickle your Valentine’s fancy, here is a nice, long excerpt from Chapter One to stroke you in all the best ways…

  “Do you ever get a bad feeling about a day?” Saul Tidewater turned his head on his pillow and asked his lover seriously.

Both men lay naked under the covers of Saul’s bed, their legs intertwined, their hands softly roaming each other’s body. They had made love softly, easing each other’s orgasms out, coaxing the come from their cocks with long wet kisses and carnal nothings whispered into the skin. They had come only moments apart, their bodies more in sync with one another than either man dared to acknowledge.

Now, as the clock in the living room struck midnight, they were both drifting in the warm haze of afterglow. Sleep lingered in the corners of their consciousness, waiting patiently for the talk to run down and for the men to surrender to the sandman’s touch.

Thirty-two year old Mercer Braun yawned into Saul’s shoulder, his head nestled deeply on the doctor’s arm. With his short, sun-kissed blond hair ruffled and askew, Mercer lay curled up on his side, the length of his 6’2” frame plastered possessively to his lover. The stubble on his chin made delicious scratch-scritch noises against Saul’s skin as Mercer nuzzled himself deeper into his arms.

The men had only known each other for nine months; the last six they had known each other exclusively.  Mercer having never been in a serious relationship for such a length of time, and still fought pinching himself every morning in which he woke up to the all-encompassing love that was Dr. Saul Tidewater.

It had been less than three years since Mercer, a major league first baseman for the Pittsburgh Pirates, had learned that he had a chronic heart condition called an aortic valve stenosis. While surgery was able to repair his heart, the ailment had stripped him of his career. Fortunately, he had always handled his money wisely. When retirement was forced upon the twenty-nine year old, he had by that time established a substantial nest egg for himself, one that would require him to work only part of the year.

Moving to Las Vegas to take advantage of the weather and the city’s proximity to the spring training leagues in Arizona, Mercer had opened a hitting clinic for professional baseball players which he ran out of his house in the winter months of baseball’s off season. The venture had been a roaring success. The rest of the year he volunteered with kids, coaching their little league teams and mentoring them both on and off the field.

Mercer Braun’s life was still good, but it was different. The heart condition had to be monitored regularly. While he had received a replacement valve, it was scientific fact that the valve would eventually wear out. Of course, another valve would then be inserted, but each surgery, each replacement got riskier as its odd for success got smaller. Mercer had learned to live with the realities of his future. His lover, a cardio thoracic surgeon, however, had not.

Saul Tidewater always remembered Mercer’s limitations. He always made sure that Mercer didn’t push himself physically too far, made sure that the former ballplayer was never far beyond a doctor’s reach. Honestly, it was sometimes annoying as hell, and Saul’s well-meaning but firm limitations he’d set had forced Mercer to give up some of the activities in life he had cherished the most. The almost daily dawn to dusk hikes in the desert that had filled Mercer’s empty summer hours were now a thing of the past. Sometimes, Mercer missed those days terribly.

He, however, bent to Saul’s wishes out of an ever growing love and inextinguishable passion for the heart surgeon. Mercer’s condition scared Saul and rightfully so. While Mercer lived his life from day to day, soaking in as much life as God allowed him, Saul often lived for the future. Their future. It was a difficult balancing act both men had to play in their relationship. It was fragile and both feared it could so easily be broken.

“No,” Mercer answered Saul’s question with a sleep-beckoning sigh. Every day was a blessing in Mercer’s book, so no day could possibly be tagged as bad. He knew he wouldn’t win that argument though, so he shelved that discussion in hopes of a sex-drowsed nap. “Why? Do you?” he asked as he nuzzled his nose into Saul’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Saul replied half distracted by something Mercer was too tired to name.

“Bad feeling about today?” Mercer raised his head up off of his shoulder just enough to meet Saul’s gaze with his own. Saul had the most spectacular deep hazel eyes, with his rich black hair they sparkled devilishly in his face. Mercer could literally stare at Saul all day and never tire of a detail. Unfortunately, sleep was a necessity no man could completely ignore. Another yawn caught Mercer off guard then, but he refused to relinquish the connection until an answer to his question was given.

Saul shrugged his free shoulder and forced a small smile that was no doubt for Mercer’s benefit alone. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m just tired.”

“You sure?” Mercer asked, planning to go back to this subject once his brain was more awake than asleep.

“Yeah.” Saul craned his neck down to give his lover a kiss on the crown of his head. “Go to sleep.”

Mercer needed more than a nice peck on the noggin though, so he took it. Maneuvering himself farther up Saul’s long, lean body, Mercer sloppily devoured the doctor’s lips with his own.

A sleepy-eyed Saul gave as good as he got.

The kisses were messy and loud and lacked all grace, but they were still perfect.

Mercer sighed as he finally let Saul’s mouth free. “That’s better.”

Saul smiled as he combed his fingers lovingly through Mercer’s hair. “You’re right. It is.”

Heavily, Mercer dropped his chin to the doctor’s chest. He looked blearily up at his lover and asked rather dopily, “Can I go to sleep now?”

Running a hand reverently down the side of Mercer’s face, Saul said softly, “Dream away.”

Mercer grinned, turned his head to the side and down just a bit so that the sound of Saul’s heartbeat was all he could hear, and mumbled in one last final breath of awareness, “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Ok, I think I’ve just sprained my self-promotion muscle… Oh, Mr. Medic!

Seriously though, thank you all for taking the time to stop by again. It’s been a while and I’ve missed you probably more than I should. I’ll be back in the next week or so with my usual strung-out foreplay to promote my next novel Stripped Asset. It’s at the publisher’s right now so it won’t be long until you hear from me and my madness again.

I hoped you enjoyed and I hope you will consider adding “Hard Candy, Soft Cream” to your library tomorrow.

Spread the word everyone… I’m hoarse and I need a drink. *grins*

Until next time…

Chloe Stowe

In GLBT fiction, authors often find themselves face to face with a cumbersome beast I have dubbed the elephant. What is this tusked creature? To put it bluntly, the elephant is hate. From discrimination to disgust, the elephant is inescapable for all in the GLBT community. Sadly, it is a part of every day life. Yep, the elephant and its dung stink up our worlds. The question of the moment is: should it stink up our escapist fiction?

There is no easy answer.

While romance and erotica fiction often thrive in their absurd, wonderful distance from “regular” life, our characters must have at least a foothold in the “real world.” So how much of the real world and its pachyderms do we let in?

In other words, the question is: to ignore or to challenge the elephant?

Personally, I prefer to samba.

Let’s face it folks, if life didn’t stink, rose-scented pathways would lose their appeal. We authors of romance and erotica would have nowhere to lead our faithful readers. The Pied Piper can’t just walk circles around the square. How boring. How useless. So, we’ve got to let in at least some of the stink for our rosy words and worlds to entice readers to follow.

Ignoring the elephant is out.

Do we challenge the elephant? Yes, but I think we need to be sneaky. If we have our characters stand there in front of a stampede with elephant guns cocked and loaded on their shoulders, there’s going to be a hell of a lot less time for sex and loving. We’ve got to remember our genre… and we’ve got to outthink it. Hearts and flowers, penises and pussies are all well and good; in fact they are our bread and butter. So, I say, lather it on, baby! Don’t stray from the demands of our genre, invoke them. Lure the elephant into our playground then…

Samba!

In my first novel, Forever Bound, the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” idiotic beast was let in to keep my two heroes apart. Oh yes, the elephant got a good number of tusked shots in, but in the end did the pachyderm win? Of course not. My boys did. Love did. One might ask if the elephant was slain? Sadly, no. That “real world” stuff can be a real kicker. But do you know what? That DADT elephant sure as hell never looked stupider. Sure, it may have been just a kick in the beast’s big toe, but the creep’s going to remember me; he’s going to wince and one day he’s going to stumble and Whammo! The guys with the elephant guns can move in for the kill.

Delusions of grandeur? Maybe. But take it from a person who knows, if you’ve got to have delusions those are the kind to have.

In Taken, my second novel which will published in the next few weeks, I purposefully left the playground gate closed. There was no elephant, per se. There was only his dung. Dabbed behind the ears of my villain, the stink was a perfect trail to follow (or was it the perfect red herring?) Either way, I sambaed my ass off.

In my next novel Barbarian, I just may invite into the yard an elephant of a different color.

The point is: elephant shit is the perfect fertilizer for our roses. Let the pachyderms in!

In a straight-back wooden chair sits a naked man at your kitchen table.  What do you do? 

The answer depends entirely on who the “you” is.  At this point in the story, it’s not so much about the man as it is about the person in the kitchen door. 

Audience.  It’s our subject of the week.  

Now, before anyone gets out their pencils, Elmer’s Glue and protractors, let me assure you – this is not school, and if anybody calls me their “teacher” somebody better be sporting a school uniform at their knees and a “Paddle me. I’ve been bad” sign Elmer glued to their ass. (hmmm… so that’s what the glue was for?).  I do not profess to be anything more than a crazy chick in a black sheepskin jumper.  So, moving on…

Audience.  Who’s at the kitchen door?  A smart author will always know exactly who’s lurking in that doorway.  Critics of erotica/romance writers often complain that these authors must not be able to write in any other genre.  Critics pigeonhole us.  These critics are fools.  We, the erotica/romance writers of the world, are the true entrepreneurs.  We keep our eye on that kitchen door at all times (in other words, we know our market).  We can pretty much guess if our voyeurs are sporting a “Twilight” shirt underneath their coat (i.e.: we know the trends).  In terms of short and long terms futures, we want to get our door dweller to take that one step into the kitchen, so that we can essentially rush behind them and slam the door shut (yeah, yeah, I know… Ponzi scheme *cringes*, but hey at least we give them a naked men in their kitchen, more than Madoff did.)  Scurrying on…

Let’s ponder an example or two of our keen intellects while examining the choices we, the authors, make and avoid (i.e. shove our smarts in those critics’ faces)….

So, who’s at the kitchen door and what do we do about it?  Here are some possibilities:

a) If there’s a romance aficionado at the door, we have the man stand up to reveal a bow tied around his manhood while wearing a “come hither and let me woo you” look on his brazenly handsome face.  A dusk colored bedroom or a deserted beach magically appears stage right.  Violinist optional, but usually annoying.

b) If there’s a fan of erotica at the door, we have the man toss the table aside to reveal a woman on her knees shining up his family jewels.  His buddies in leather harnesses await their turn with both parties stage right.  Dungeon master optional, but suggested.

c) If there’s a paramour of the paranormal at the door, we have the man bear his luscious fangs before leaping over the table and initiating our door dweller to his dark side.  Werewolves morph from man to beast stage right.  Full moon required.

d) If there’s your basic horror fan at the door, we have the man bear his ungodly fangs before hurling his evil self over the table brandishing a chain saw in one hand and a pentagram in the other.  Priest or kick-ass girlfriend/boyfriend enter stage right.  Blood or psychological dismemberment not only required but eagerly expected.

e) Finally, if there’s a literary guru at the door… grab the naked man and run, stage right, left, who the hell cares! Let the ghosts of Hemingway and Dickins work this mess out.  You’ve got a naked man to enjoy.

Audience: the perpetual souls at our kitchen doors.  Invite them in, feed them well and they will come again.

            In a straight-back wooden chair sits a naked man at your kitchen table.  What do you do?

Read on.

Once upon a time, there was a whine. It was mine. It went something like this…

“Feeling like my little sister is the bright spot of the family while I’m that dingy stain that never quite goes away.”

To my credit, I did add a “lol” at the end, I don’t know, to somehow absolve me of petty bitching, I suppose. Oh, well, it didn’t work. I still felt like crap…

Then suddenly, from stage left, come flying in my cheerleading squad (you guys know who you are; I’ll be getting the uniforms to you next week). Got to tell you it was the first time I’d ever been called “kick-ass” in my life (and I liked it). As for the black sheep thing, well, let’s just say that the tag “mentally ill” comes with its very own ebony ewe outfit. It was nice to slip the wooly thing back on, though; I’d been spending way too much time in the so-called normal world anyhow.

So, now with my black sheep brothers and sisters at my side, it’s time once again to enter the world of blog. So, cover up your white furniture, folks, I think this sheep’s going to shed!

What shall I shed today? Hmmm. How about a few thoughts on sex? Now, before you start contacting your congressman/woman, I am referring to sex merely in words. Although, let’s be honest guys, what is there “merely” anything about writing sex scenes? I always say that if you as the author don’t end up as hot and bothered as your character at the end of the roll in the hay, then you’re doing something wrong. Now, I’m not saying that you can’t punch out a great “getting busy” scene when you’re in a foul mood, or the kids are calling, or your mom is calling. It can be done, and done well. But, my point is, that when you re-read your scene in more conducive settings, your screaming libido should be shoving dollar bills down your panties/briefs by the last word.

Am I calling we erotica writers “strippers”? Hell, yeah!

Chloe may not have a pole, but she’s swinging and swaying and strutting everything she’s got while the readers’ eyes are on her. It’s a rare opportunity to have someone pay to watch you. It’s a thrill out English lit. teachers knew nothing about (or they knew it all too well, and the greedy bastards were keeping it to themselves).

So what is the point to this totally unexpected, unplanned blog. other than to call us g-stringed workers in the sex industry?

Enjoy your inner black sheep-ness.

Whether you’re a reader or a writer or both, don’t be afraid to pull out the old ebony ewe when nobody impressionable is watching. It kinda tickles.

          My first blog. Hmmm. I guess since I’m an erotica writer and most of you guys out there have the same sensibilities as I do, I can safely shout to the heavens (with only the slightest tremble to my voice)… “Let’s pop Chloe Stowe’s cherry!”
          Before my readers either: a) run, hide and go “Ick” or b) line up with big volunteer grins on their faces, let me clarify: We’re talking my blog cherry, folks. Geeze. Get your minds out of my gutter; I need room to work.
          Does a blog have a cherry? I guess we’ve already established that mine does. But what if I wanted a boy blog? I should get that option; after all…a) My little sister just found out that I’m having a nephew, b) I write about men, lots of men, lots of men doing interesting things with lots of man-parts, and c) I like men. Don’t worry girls, I’ve still got the big “bi” under sexual orientation, but, honestly, it’s been years… besides, I just can’t resist a really good man-part…
            Yes, yes, I know. I’m drifting.
            Well, guys, get used to it. I’m on some heavy medication here and we’re all lucky I’m not drifting out there on a cloud of mellow while chanting folk music. I should really have a pre-requisite reading list for my blog (maybe that’s why I’m 37 and just now popping?). For any of you who have wandered here without knowing my tale, please take a moment to read my very brief bio (you can find it many places, easiest though is at my website (http://chloestowe.webs.com/).
               Ok, now that we’re all caught up on my madness, let’s get back to discussing me. The better parts of me. My best part, I think, is my writing. I’ll let you be the judge of that. This being an author’s blog, I guess we should be discussing writing stuff instead of whether or not my blog has a wee-wee. Pity. Blog gender for another day then.
               So, let’s talk about Setting (sounds kind of boring now, doesn’t it?). My publishing history at the moment includes four works: two short stories and two novels, and each of their various settings hold special meaning to me. Write what you know. An old cliché, but a goodie… at least when it comes to locales… most of the time… when I’m not feeling wicked… and stupid.
                 Forever Bound is set all over the place. To be honest, it’s kind of a road map of the big stuff in my life. I live in Florida now, have never been happier, and am just waiting for my own John or Aaron to come play hoops with me in my rose garden, sans snipers of course. (See, you’ve got to read the story, folks… lol).
                Auburn University plays the villain in my locale storyline. I went crazy there, so excuse me if I’m bitter. So Auburn gets a tornado rammed through its gut. Yes, that’s my evil grin you’re feeling in the cosmos right now. Moving on…
               Colorado is where my boys get away to play. My grandparents lived there and I spent many vacations in that wondrous air. How could I not give John and Aaron a taste of that love I felt there?
               Chicago. Well, I’m a Cubs fan. You talk about pleasure and pain. Enough said there.
               My other three published works will be out later this year, so I’m not going to give too much away. Sorry, but if you want this blog to be more than a one-offer, I’ve got to save some material. Let’s just say that the wicked, stupid side of me set a good chunk of Taken in New York City. I’ll take that decision as a sign of future travels (yep, right after I get done kicking myself and hiding from all New Yorkers who will one day read Taken). Oh well, I’m trying to do the city justice and I think my newest men (Michael and Gareth) are enjoying playing in that magnificent city… if not, I know for sure, they are loving Africa! Nope, not telling you where, except to say that I spent 10 days there last fall and it was unbelievable…
               Was that my first teaser? Ooh, my cherry has officially popped. Hope it was as good for you as it was for me.
               Go bask in the afterglow, guys. I’m off to pop 30 mg.
               See ya soon!

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