KATIE IN LOVE by Chloe Thurlow
I am moved beyond words. Let me attempt to tell you why.
Katie In Love might be read on the surface only; but, it also can be read the way it was meant to be, seeing the layers beneath the pages. I found myself, highlighter in hand, marking passages; each word exquisite, picked carefully to fully impact the reader. The only other time I have seen this almost sing-song quality of words that roll off the tongue is Charles Dickens. I know, I can hear the shock at my writing those words.
This is Erotica at its’ best. The story is so much more than sex scenes designed to shock, but instead, they are written to delight the senses. We feel Katie’s thoughts intimately. We watch her transitioning before she even knows that she is changing. We feel her becoming as we stream through Katie’s life; chances taken and breaking all the rules to see what is on the other side.
I adored this book and suffered “La Petite Mort” when I read the last words on the page. If you have never read erotica because of all the bad press, this one should be your first. You will never be the same.
I am a night person, the girl at the bar who looks like she should have gone home and maybe has no home to go to. I am thin, chic, in an abstract sort of way. I have high cheekbones, long legs, perhaps too thin, and I like dancing.
I compose my work in the dead hours between two and six while London sleeps and the early morning planes follow the Thames into Heathrow carrying bankers and businessmen hoping to make it in the greatest city on earth – London, where I was born on a December night with a full-moon overhead and snow covering the garden.
Writing is a sickness, an ailment, an addiction. When I’m not writing, I’m thinking about what I have written that day and, when I do go to bed, I lay sleeplessly thinking about what I am going to write when I get up and start again the following day.
When I do sleep, I sleep badly, in spite of the magnets under my mattress that are supposed to orientate my body north to south so the dragon lines pass through the invisible portal at the top of my skull and down to my feet, my best feature, an old boyfriend once said. The last thing he ever said, now I come to think about it.
I have worked as a tutor, in marketing, and for a women’s magazine which involved writing captions for interiors and combat with photographers fixated on depth and apertures. Regular working doesn’t suit me, it interferes with writing, and now I freelance as a waitress at corporate ‘events’ where masters of the universe congratulate themselves by drinking buckets of champagne and falling over.