Against the Apothecary’s Jar

In a field of white sweet clover sits an apothecary’s jar.

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

It is late spring and the clover is in bloom.

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

But the glass never breaks.

The bees do.

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

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

I do this.

A lot, actually.

*sighs heartily against the glass*

I need to learn another way…

So, here I am.

Starting a new blog is truly the last thing I need to do. I am a published author with 17 novels under her belt and an 18th in final edits. I already pen a daily writer’s blog (one that has been going strong for nearly 2 years now). My schedule is incomprehensible even to me. There are so many reasons not to do this… that I really, really must.

If for a moment, for a scant shutter of a breath my soul could tiptoe free from my troublesome mind*, here you will find the places I would go.

Small, out of the way spots where I could linger for weeks and let my writer’s imagination run wild and unruly.

Little known nooks in the world that I would dearly love to call my own for just a wee-while.

Perhaps there will be commentary; perhaps there will not. If there is it will be all my own. No sponsorships here.

Links will be active. Please, please go.  Testimonials of other dreamers or of doers will always be welcome.

Now, enough of my babbling.

Come, tiptoe with me up to the apothecary’s glass.

Until the first nook…

Chloe Stowe


*My troublesome mind consists of a chronic panic disorder that prohibits me from supporting myself beyond my writing. Anxiety and OCD-tendencies add to the cocktail which has placed me maddeningly in the jar.


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