Posted by: Shanna Germain | 05/27/2009

Insert 2: Cheyenne Blue

One of the neat things (for me at least) about these Inserts, is the way they’re bringing together my friends from all the aspects of my life. Literary writers. Erotica writers. Poets. Coffee gurus. Gamers and geeks. Editors. Family. Athletes. Travelers. Friends who defy characterization (which, truly is most of them.). I can’t wait to see who turns up tomorrow!


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I ‘met’ Cheyenne Blue on paper long before I met her in person. For years, I knew of her as the writer of sexy, funny and heartbreaking stories (like The Seer’s Wife and Shadow Child). I read her work with hope for my own, and discovered all the ways that erotic writing could be literary, sexy, sensual, sweet and hysterically funny. Eventually, we got to know each other. I can’t remember how, exactly. I might have written to her, gushing like a schoolgirl (very likely), or worked on editing one of her pieces for Clean Sheets.

And then, when I was traveling for work, I had the chance to meet her in person. She was picking me up for breakfast, and I remember being excited, but more than that, I was school-girl nervous. My first real erotica writer! The first one I’d ever met in real life. I tried on at least three outfits (and those who know me know that this is very unlike me) and I stood in front of my hotel, jittery. Trying to look all cool.

When she drove up, I knew it was her right away. Tall and athletic, with fantastic hair and an even more fantastic smile. We went to breakfast, and had the most amazing conversation. She was warm, and forthright, and she shared stories of her incredible life. Traveling. Living all over the world. Writing everywhere. In real life, she was as funny and sensual and real as her stories were.

To be honest, that breakfast conversation (although I’ve never told her this) formed much of what eventually turned into this jaunt into another country. It was her enthusiasm, her joy, her writing and her life that made me think, “Why can’t I do that too? What’s keeping me from following my heart and my dreams?”

So to have her here at Chapter 37 is an amazing treat. And just goes to show that every good thing does come full circle, and that all it takes is one amazing person over a plate of eggs and hash browns to change your life.

How far we’ve come, s.

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carlingfordrun
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Hi Shanna,

This is Cheyenne Blue. I’ve been greatly enjoying your Chapter 37 blog, although I’m a bad commenter. Bad Cheyenne; no cookie.

Here’s a photo of me in my life.

We’ve just moved from the tough and cheerful little town of Drogheda (main claim to fame: the severed head of Saint Oliver Plunkett, covered in creosote and placed in a glass case in the local church) up to a village called Carlingford (www.carlingford.ie). It’s a further hour up the east coast of Ireland. In fact, it’s about as far north as you can go in County Louth and still be in the Republic. The village is out on the Cooley Peninsula, nestled twixt the mountains and the sea.ย  I now have a 2.5 hour commute EACH WAY on the three days I go down to Dublin, but it’s worth it. It’s so worth it. ๐Ÿ™‚

It’s probably not dissimilar to your own locale: tiny harbour outside the window, mountains behind, sea in front, very beautiful, and bloody endless rain. In fact, as the crow flies, you’re only a few miles away to the east. ๐Ÿ™‚

This photo was taken last Sunday, the ONLY sunny day in months. I was out for my run, a hard five miles along a trail–the Tain Way–that goes pretty much straight up the mountain before contouring along by the forestry plantation. Here, I’m running along the flat(ish) bit. The view is Carlingford Lough, and the land the far side is Northern Ireland. As you can see from my glowing white flesh, this is the first time my shoulders have seen the sun this year.

Cheers,
Cheyenne (who does eat mayo as a salad dressing on occasion, but you ain’t tried nothing until you’ve had chips with salad cream… Google it!)

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“A journey is best measured in friends, rather than miles.” ~Tim Cahill
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Responses

  1. Shanna, m’dear, my face is glowing pink from more than the second sunny day of the year and the glass of Sauv Blanc I’m sipping. Such kind words you have to say (such undeserved words).

    I remember that breakfast well and I loved meeting you and having a long and winding conversation over buckets of coffee and and a hearty Colorado breakfast.

    T’was good then; come visit and we can reprise the breakfast with the Full Irish instead of breakfast burritos and green chili. ๐Ÿ™‚

  2. Wow.. was the saint dead before they severed his head or did they go “Hmmm.. he’s pretty good right now, but give him a year or two and he’ll screw things up – so lets avoid all that rubbish” then *whack* dead saint?

    I love all this interesting history behind towns. Here in Wisconsin I’ve lived in towns that were named after towns on the east coast that folks came from /yawn or great contributors of the area (read rich folk that people wanted to schmooze)

    Thank you for sharing another treasure with us!!

    • Don’t you have to be dead to be a saint? (Another good reason to stay alive, IMHO). Anyway, St Ollie was hung, drawn and quartered by the English in about 1680ish. Bits of him are buried in Bristol, England, bits of him are scattered around the place, and his head and scapula ended up in Drogheda.

      I have no idea why he’s a saint though, apart from the being dead thing, and getting conveniently martyred.

      Fake edit: Oooh, ohhh, ohhhh…. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oliver_Plunkett tells you about him, which isn’t as interesting as the photo of his head on the same page.


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