All posts by Patricia Tsouros

Entrepreneur, Mother, Dog Lover, Traveller, Writer, Poet, Passion for Art. Co-Founder, Artfetch.com

8 Great Tips to Start Creating

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I hope you have taken this opportunity to find that space and time to write. So today I am encouraging you to be brave, don’t hold  back with self doubt, don’t be critical, be positive and write your first chapter. It does not matter what your writing is like. When I went back to compile my chapters into a story, my writing was terrible. But at least I had something to work with. I started the arduous task of editing and forming a story out of what I had written. Get something down. Later you can tweak and polish and edit to a high standard. Before you can make changes, it’s vital that you at least have something to work with.  Everyday while staying at home  I write about 800 words, that’s  outside of my editing, and already I can see a short story forming  inspired by my two babes (Bettyboop and Olliepop).

1.Start Off… If you don’t know where to start, don’t bother deciding right now: Write what you want, and it will slot in where it belongs …

2. Start… Small, and you will frame the body of your story. …

3. Incentivize the Reader. …

 

When I first started writing, I made the mistake of thinking I had to offer all the information on a character, critical elements of the plot set the scene immediately. What I learned was that the reader is not interested in those details directly, what they want answering is, “Why should I keep reading, Do I want to keep reading.” So in your first couple of paragraphs, give them a reason to keep reading.

4. Commit to a Title Up Front. ...

The title you give a story—whether it ends up being your final title or just a placeholder— is your North Star.

5. Create a system to write your story . ...

When I started the thought of writing a book was overwhelming, so creating the story in sections made it easier for me to construct my story. I began by writing my story in ‘chapters’ as blogs. It allowed me to work out story problems and emotional beats early and served as a road map. My story thread did not follow consecutively. But it formed the outline for the book. There is something psychologically freeing about knowing that the problem you are tackling has already been at least somewhat addressed in a framework.

6. Allow Yourself to Write Badly. …

When I went back to compile my chapters into a story, my writing was terrible. But at least I had something to work with. I started the arduous task of editing and forming a story out of what I had written. Get something down. Later you can tweak and polish and edit to a high standard. Before you can make changes, it’s vital that you at least have something to work with.

7. Create a Synopsis:

This will help you understand your story.

8. Write as you go

Plotting is excellent if that’s how you roll. Still, it is also perfectly acceptable to sit down and start writing with only an idea of what you want to write about and go with the flow.

Stay Safe, Stay Positive, Don’t’ Despair, Create

Writing; Show Don’t Tell Exercise #1:

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The difference between ‘Show‘ and ‘Tell ‘is that ‘Show’ invokes from the reader a mental image of the scene/emotion. In contrast, ‘Tell’ is a statement of an action/emotion. The goal in your writing is to provoke a reaction in your readers, for them to feel the emotions your character is feeling. It sounds easy, but it is a difficult task. Once you get it, telling your story will flow. It’s probably the most challenging maxim to grasp, and it was for me, but once I did, I could not believe how connected I became to my writing. It was like a sensory awakening.  
 
Read what you have written and circle every telling word :
Then write down specifics for each. Then circle every emotion word such as Sad, Happy, Angry, Excited, Giddy, Anxious, Terrified, Disgust, etc.. and look at how you can Show that emotion rather than Tell.  
Below is an example from my blog, Eventide Love: Chapter titled Before: 
I first wrote this paragraph: 
‘I loved the sea and my early morning swims. In the beautiful blue sea, I felt at peace.’
This is a real example of tell not show. so I circled each word, tapped into my senses, and wrote this:  
“At that time of day, the sea would seem to belong to me. I would revel in it, hearing the sounds of distant traffic muted against the notes of wind and water, and losing myself in the changing shades of blue, turquoise, deep green and grey until sometimes I thought I might dissolve too, lose my body.”
Which one do you think sets the scene in a more engaging way? 
Circle, Circle, Circle, tap into your senses and rewrite those sentences. 
Use the character’s five senses sighthearingsmelltaste and touch: Take the reader to the scene through . …
1.Use strong verbs. …
2. Avoid adverbs. …
3. Be specific. …
4. Use dialogue. …
5. Focus on actions and reactions

Rather than Telling that your character is angry, Show it. You do this by describing his face flushing, his throat tightening, his voice rising, his slamming a fist on the table. When you Show, you don’t have to Tell.

Tired? He can yawn, groan, stretch. His eyes can look puffy. His shoulders could slump. Another character might say, “Didn’t you sleep last night? You look shot.” When you Show rather than Tell, you make the reader part of the experience. Rather than having everything simply imparted to him, he sees it in his mind and comes to the conclusions you want.

Show, Don’t Tell,” in essence, encourages writers to tell stories via the use of immersive thoughts, actions, and descriptions most often filtered through the lens of a point-of-view character.

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You can mail at room19sf@gmail.com

Stay Safe, Stay Positive, Don’t Despair, Create. 

 

 

For more information I have included a link below.

Show, Don’t Tell: How to Show Not Tell in Writing With Exercises

Let’s write Love

Fundamental Start Points

1. Decide what the story is about Write the concept and argument of your story in a sentence, then stretch that out to a paragraph, and then to a one-page outline. Now you have the basic overview of your story and characters. 

2. Set a Time and Place; This will ensure that you don’t have to think about when you will write or where to write. When it’s time to write, it’s time to write.

3. Give yourself realistic deadlines. I find having a weekly goal is imperative to my productivity. To keep things objective, the way to do this is to set a Word Count. Be proud when you reach your goal, don’t critique yourself, remember this is about getting pen to paper. The editing will come. You need to have something to aim for and a way to measure yourself. This is the only way I ever get any work of any kind done: with a goal or deadline.

Let’s start today off with writing a piece on Love.

The magic wand to writing is writing.
There is nothing complicated about it, just start. Find that space and time, and simply begin to write your story.  When I started, I wrote chapters in a short story format as I went along. I published them as blogs. Later on, I headed into the editing process, which I will cover later on, organizing and editing my blogs into the book.  You will find a practise that works for you. 
Don’t overwhelm yourself by believing you are starting to write a book. That’s not how writing works. You write a sentence, then a paragraph, then maybe if you’re lucky, an entire chapter. Writing happens in fits and starts, in bits and pieces. It’s a process. 
You take one step at a time, then another and another. 
To help you kickstart your writing, I am going to give you a prompt. And that is the Word’ Love’. It sounds simple, but the truth is love is a complex web of action and emotion. It’s an emotion that runs through every story in all guises. It can be pure love, deep love, lonely love, anxious love, abusive love, conflicted love, whatever kind of love you are feeling or experiencing.  
Below some examples to help stimulate your creative juices;
1 Love in Isolation.
2 Family Love
3 Love for a partner
4 Lost Love
5 Broken Love
6 Enduring love
7 Obsessive Love
8 Love of a Pet
9 The pain of Love
10 Dangerous Love
11 Happy Love
This exercise will help you understand your voice in your style of writing. 
So in the midst of all the chaos churning around and inside us, make a writing space for yourself, gather your tools, make the time, and start the magic. Completing this writing exercise will kickstart a process and motivate you to the next step.
Please email me your work, and we can share and critique our work together in a safe and positive environment. The idea is to build a community of writers and support each other during these tough times and beyond.
Email: room19sf@gmail.com, that’s my writing email. Room 19 is my short story script that was at the start of  production but had to be put on hold until we come out the other end of the pandemic. 
Get started, keep writing. 
Stay Safe, Stay Positive, Create, don’t Despair. 
Follow On Instagram @absolutly_patsy to stay updated. Writing and lots more.

Writing 1 – Discover the Magic of Writing

As Promised today is the start of writing our way through these difficult times. Today’s project below. 

 

 

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What – What do you want to write about? There are so many genres in writing: Romance, Fantasy, Thriller, Detective, Mystery, Adventure, Horror. Or you might want to write a memoir, or what you are going through right now, possibly as a blog. And then there is Young Adult Fiction and Children. Whatever you want to write, it’s essential that in a few hundred words, you outline your idea. That’s the first thing for you to do today. 

 

Why – Why do you want to write it? Similarly, write a few hundred words on why you want to write. That will help you understand what your end goal is. Do you want to have a novel at the end, or a series of short stories, start a blog, publish or for own satisfaction? 
Knowledge – What is your experience, understanding, comprehension of your subject matter? 
‘Write for yourself; rewrite for others’…this is one of the most excellent writing tips for beginners anyone could give you. Know your subject, but equally as important, know your audience better than they know themselves. Act as if you are speaking to one person and write accordingly to create an emotional tie with your readers.  
The Magic of Writing
Writing is magic, from your imagination, you can create something quite literally out of nothing. Once I started the process of writing, I began to love it. I found myself looking forward to my allocated writing time, excited to see where I was going with the characters and story. The best way to do justice to writing is to love it. Once you start enjoying the process as I did, it will come naturally to you, and you’ll look forward to writing every day. Your magic wand to writing is to simply put your fingers to the keyboard or pen to paper. Set a time, be disciplined, and reveal in your writing. Be consistent and keep the words flowing regularly. Try and notch up a few hundred words every day, so you don’t lose the thread the magic touch. 
So in the midst of all the chaos churning around and inside us, make a writing space for yourself, gather your tools, make the time, and start the magic. Completing this writing exercise will kickstart a process and motivate you to the next step.
Please email me your work, and we can share and critique our work together in a safe and positive environment. The idea is to build a community of writers and support each other during these tough times and beyond.
Email: room19sf@gmail.com, that’s my writing email. Room 19 is my short story script that was at the start of  production but had to be put on hold until we come out the other end of the pandemic. 

Stay safe, Stay Positive, Create don’t Despair

Fuel Your mind with Creative Writing

Hi everyone, it’s a while since I posted on my blog. Wow what a time we are going through with the Covid 19 Virus. It’s like living in an sci fi movie. Isn’t it?

Well since I last posted I have being doing a lot of writing courses and workshops. I have finished my book Eventide Love and wrote short film script that was about to go into production but had to be postponed because of the virus.  So as I self isolate like so many of you have to do for all sorts of reasons,  I thought what a better time than now to share  everything I have learnt and my experience of writing.  Let’s put fingers to the keyboard or pen to paper  and let the words spill out.

Olliepop staying Close

Olliepop minding me as I write in bed in self isolation.

Let’s start to write that story that has been percolating in your brain but you never had tome to take on. Or you might want to write about what you are going through right now. If you need inspiration or want a few quick tips to help keep your words flowing onto the screen, you can dip in.  Anyone, Anywhere, Anytime. I will be posting on instagram every day so you  can follow for the latest tips. This is all new so it will take a little bit of tweaking as we go along. Let’s create together and get though this together. Let’s create not despair.

“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.” –Anaïs Nin

 

‘Why did I fall so hard? Why did I make myself so vulnerable to him?’

emotional-abuse

The Psychological Abuse I experienced is the nemesis of my book. I also write a blog and write opinion pieces on emotional abuse. Below is a piece published in The Journal.ie in the light of the legislation on why making Coercive Control a criminal offense in Ireland is so Significant.


The French criminalized “psychological violence” as have the British and now Ireland has joined ranks with the passage of the Domestic Violence Bill 2017 through the Houses of the Oireachtas to include coercive control” within intimate relationships as a crime. This has to be one of the most significant pieces of legislation to come before the Oireachtas this year.

Coercive control is often talked about as if it is a mild form of domestic violence, which is a mistake. Emotional abuse is devastating and can often be more traumatic than physical wounds. Bruises and broken bones eventually heal and may leave scars, but emotional trauma stays with you and shapes who you are as a person. It leaves an indelible injury, one that is not as visible, but physically affects and damages the brain.

The Department of Justice released a press release in which they state “The new offense of coercive control sends a clear, consistent message that non-violent control in an intimate relationship is criminal. The effect of such behavior may be as harmful to victims as physical abuse because it is an abuse of the unique trust associated with an intimate relationship.”

Coercive control creates the psychological conditions that allow abusive relationships to exist and to escalate often with devasting and in some cases fatal consequences. It is, in fact, the foundation stone on which abusive relationships are built. If a someone hit you, you wouldn’t go home with them however the nature of emotional abuse is that victim does not know it’s happening to them until they are stuck under the thumb of the abuser in a surreal existence.

I was one of those who suffered this form of mental violence, and it ravaged my life. What I remember most about emotional abuse is that it felt like I was in a tumble dry cycle; – hurled around, hitting against the sides of the drum, erratically lacerated, mangled, being knocked and jolted about some more, not knowing how bloody long the cycle would continue for or where the next blow would come from. Then suddenly, intermittently, the cycle stops. I would curl up, become smaller, quieter, detach from my feelings, eliminate people and interest from my life in an attempt to slow down the drum roll, to ease the pain of the abuse. But no matter what I did, it never stopped. And with the end of the relationship, the persecution intensified. This is a common trait amongst abuser. They become even more vindictive and offensive when their victim attempts to leave or fight back. That is why this bill is so important it offers a safe place in which to take the perpetrator to task on the abuse.

The ponderous thought that remains with me is why. Why did I doggedly trust and believe him? Why did I get sucked in so deeply? Why did I fall so hard? Why did I make myself so vulnerable to him? But that’s the trick of the abuser. You don’t see or feel that your brain is being punched and battered, however, had I been physically boxed or hit I would have understood the abuse and would have run from him as fast as I could.

It was 2012, and without any legal recourse at that stage, the essence of my healing – my validation – was to write a blog about my experience. I saw my reality reflected in other women who emerged from the depths of such darkness. Seeing myself in their stories and without any legal recourse available, it allowed me to name my experience as an emotionally abused woman. Psychological violence is hard to define and hard to police, but this piece of legislation removes the ambiguity of this form of abuse and firmly recognizes it as damaging and dangerous. Identifying psychological abuse as a crime makes this is a powerful piece of legislation, in advancing women’s rights, and indeed the rights of anyone suffering from domestic violence.

Patricia Tsouros writes a blog on emotional abuse to inform and help families, and friends to understand the complexities of such a relationship, the trauma victims suffer and provide an insight to better help and support the victim.

It’s a Rap is my story of emotional abuse.

Please follow the blog for latest on book release and special launch offer.

 

 

 

Before

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Before

Looking back, can anyone ever find the moment their world turned? The minute, the second – even, when the time before tips over into the time after, and you realize that even though you didn’t see it then, everything has begun to go irrevocably, disintegratingly wrong? Thinking about Chris and me, I can’t help but wonder if that moment isn’t usually when the sun is shining at its brightest and when you seem to hold life like a glowing ball of possibility in the cup of your hands.

If you had seen me that August, in that Ibizan Villa, perched on a hill above its own private rocky cove, there for six weeks to relax with my husband, Cian, and our friends, you’d have imagined my life was perfect. And in truth, perhaps I’d thought so too. I relished my morning swims, before the others had opened their eyes, usually gritty from late night wine, and ignoring Cian’s requests to be careful out there on my own. Frequently ignoring my own cut feet too – the rocks were sharp, but the ocean always more exhilarating in that place.

At that time of day, the sea would seem to belong to me, and I would revel in it, hearing the sounds of distant traffic muted against the notes of wind and water, and losing myself in the changing shades of blue, turquoise, deep green and grey until sometimes I thought I might dissolve too, lose my body. That usually signaled something in me, telling me it was enough, and then, carefully timing my exit against the dash of the waves on the rocks, I would slide myself out, and climb back up to the terrace for my morning latte.

“She’ll never be told,” my husband, Cian, would say to our friends, different couples from our set, who would come and go over the summer. “What will we do with her?” Sometimes I felt like answering him, and sometimes, as a result, epic fights would ensue. But other times I would fight the urge to break the morning’s peace with the observation that there was nothing to be done with me, that my life wasn’t his to tell. But to be truly honest, I didn’t know either, because beneath my tan, and behind the veneer of my various bikinis in every color under the sun, the sheer evening kaftans, the condensation clustered light evening glasses of ice-cold rosé in expensive marina bars, I was well and truly bored.

That morning, I padded up the steps, leaving a trail of fast-disappearing salty footprints, evaporating in the morning sun. The villa was quiet, everyone still sleeping, abandoned glasses and overflowing ashtrays on the terrace testament to the night before. They seemed jarringly unclean against the freshness of the delicate pink bougainvillea, which grew over a trellis to drop confetti petals on the surface of the pool. Why do we always end up making everything we touch dirty? I wondered, starting to clear up.

It hadn’t taken long for that bite of boredom to catch at me. I had only been back in Ibiza for two weeks, only just settled down into the relaxed rhythms of the holiday island after the fractured strain of what seemed like the last days of the Candidate’s broken campaign in Ireland.

None of us had seen it coming. There were tensions amongst us volunteers – all working to make our candidate the first openly gay President of Ireland, that’s undoubtedly inevitable, but we were drawn together in our belief in this human rights campaigner, a larger than life hero.

And it was going well. Public support was high, the poll ratings were up, and financial pledges rolling in. My role as fundraiser seemed almost easy, I knew all the right people, and they were keen to contribute, wanting to be part of the history we felt we were making. I told a good story, but the story was there anyway – we were backing a maverick, and the public loved it. I made promises, depending on what people needed to hear, knowing the value of being at the heart of things. Then, rumors emerged, like little wisps of mist at first, then thickening smokily, turned into flame with speculative newspaper articles. Mutterings became accusations. Were certain letters written by the Candidate in existence? Could he confirm their content? Would he like to make a comment: come on Sir, the public have a right to know… In the absence of clear fact, the story grew, and in the first days of August, the Candidate withdrew from the race. Quoting Beckett, it may have been his finest hour: Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better. Listening to him then, his rich voice rolling the words around the crowd, an instinctive orator, a born performer, I wanted to weep.

I stood beside the campaign manager, outside of the range of the pointing, thickly clustered cameras, and microphones, I wondered if the rumor mongers, the scandal merchants, the tabloid columnists felt any twinge of regret about what they had done. The campaign had felt like it was ours to lose and yet they had created what appeared to be Everything out of the hint of what wasn’t even quite Something. A few words knitted together to weave an implication, a few implications intensifying into innuendo. In the process they had orchestrated the Candidate’s downfall in the name of news, playing with lives to get their story. I wondered angrily who they’d go for next.

“Come back to Ibiza,” said Cian, when I told him on the phone. “You don’t need to be there. Alex and May have just arrived, and the Whites fly in on Thursday. Everything can be done from here,” he added when I demurred, mentioning the loose ends that needed to be tied up, people who should be thanked, books that had to be balanced.

“You don’t quit just because it’s over,” I said. “Well, don’t quit here, with us,” he said. “I worry about you.” And so I went, and now, two weeks later, here I was, in the bright, sleekly modernist living area of our luxury villa, surrounded by the debris of everyone else’s night before, and suddenly jolted out of my reverie by the sound of my ringing phone. I ignored it.

And yet there was still that boredom. The phone rang again. Something told me to avoid it, so instead, I walked up the steps from the lounge area to the chic and sleek kitchen, where nothing seemed to work correctly, and every appliance came with far more switches and dials than must have been strictly necessary. I poked at various buttons on the impossibly complicated coffee maker.

“Will somebody get that bloody phone?” yelled a voice, dense with sleep and irritation, from down the bedroom corridor. That would be Alex, our latest guest who, by day four had already overstayed his welcome, as far as I was concerned. Cian liked him though, and so while I contemplated letting it ring some more, just to annoy him, I decided against precipitating a day of veiled remarks from Alex, coupled with plaintive looks from Cian. Usually, I’m not one to shirk a scene, but we’d had one just last, although for the life of me I can’t remember what had kicked it off. Keen, for once, to keep the peace, I went to ferret the phone out of my bag.

“Kim? It’s me. Can you talk?”

There was something about Brian O’Neill that had always made me impatient. Slight, with delicate features that made him appear younger than he actually was, he had blondish hair inclining to red, thinning-ish at the temples. Everything about him was ‘ish,’ and he wore suits that didn’t quite match his aspirations. He was cocky with no substance, a fast talker with little to say, inexperienced in politics yet utterly convinced of the rightness of his opinions. Was he entirely to blame for what had happened? A sense of fairness made me admit that there were others at fault, and yet he was the kind of man that blame seemed to want to zero in on and attach itself to.

I sighed, tucking the phone between shoulder and ear, prepared to half-listen while I tamped coffee into the metal holder, wedging it into place. I certainly couldn’t handle Brian without, at least, a latte.

“The Candidate is thinking of making a comeback.” That caught my attention. I put the spoon down and walked back out to the terrace. “I couldn’t let it go,” he said. “I knew I could bring him in again. I commissioned a couple of polls, we’ve been collecting signatures, there’s massive public support. Ten thousand people have signed, they want him. Kim, they want us back.” Somehow I wondered if it had indeed been Brian who had made this happen. Maybe it had, I knew the campaign had quickly become his whole life, and his devotion to the Candidate had come to border on the foolish, like an adoring puppy keen to please. Brian had a wife to whom he seldom alluded, and who we never saw. I got the impression he had married her before his ambitions had made him grow, in his own mind at least, but sometimes, when I caught a glimpse of one of his glances thrown in the Candidate’s direction, it looked a lot like love.

As I listened to Brian’s renewed enthusiasm, the shoreline and sea in front of me seemed to dissolve, and I had the strange impression of being out of my body, transported back to Dublin, even the scent and substance of the air around me somehow changed to incorporate exhaust fumes, city dust, the urgency of hundreds of thousands of people making space for their separate lives within its confines. Part of the reason I had been keen to come to Ibiza for so long had been to escape entirely, from all that dirt and noise, and from the incessant badgering of people, both in politics and the press, who had wanted the inside scoop on what had gone wrong with the Candidate and his campaign. Yes, I had been right inside, but no, I wasn’t going to dish the dirt, not then. “So can you?” he asked.

“Sorry,” I apologized. His words had run through my head without stopping to be heard, and I dragged my attention back.

“Can you be here tomorrow? We’re meeting. At the Candidate’s house…” Even the way he said that made it seem like a special treat, a school outing to some place of magical importance. “He wants you there. I want you there,” at that his voice dropped a little, a note of anxiety creeping in. “There’s a new PR guy, the Candidate’s brought him in. I don’t like him. Please come, I need you there.”

“Who was that?” Cian asked, emerging onto the terrace, wearing a white toweling bathrobe and holding a perfectly made foamy latte out for me, last night evidently officially forgotten. Even after two decades of marriage, I was frequently surprised by how handsome my husband was. Tall and dark, with green eyes and a habitually intense expression, he had the build of a rugby player – the game was one of his passions – and a schoolboy sense of humor that I rather liked. He had been only the second significant relationship in my life, he made me feel cared for, looked after. Every morning that we had lived together he had brought me a cup of tea in bed. It didn’t matter whether we had ended the evening in companionable calm, or whether I had been ranting and raving over something that had driven me and my Greek temper mad, or whether he had been out on the tiles with his friends; he was always solicitous of me, sometimes to the point where I wondered how capable I would be without him. And he hadn’t made love to me for more than ten years.

“Brian. I need to book a flight.” His face fell. But if there’s anything that twenty years of marriage can teach you, it’s when to back down. I went along with Cian’s plans in many things, usually because they tend to chime with my own, but I have a look that I keep in reserve, it’s the one that says: don’t argue with me on this one. It goes a step beyond determination, and it came out now. He was about to speak, thought better of it, put my coffee down on the terrace table, and went back inside exuding his thankfully silent disapproval. When we were first together, our fights were wild and explosive, and, if I’m honest, I found them rather thrilling. Now he mainly didn’t bother. I would still push his buttons to see if I could ignite something, but just as often I didn’t bother, and neither did he.

So the next morning found me back in Dublin, alone in the tall townhouse Cian and I had shared for most of our married life, its walls somehow stiller without the bustling presence of our two dogs, fluffy Shih Tzus, little hurricanes of energy, who ruled our lives and were my major love, Cian’s too perhaps. They were currently presiding over my parent’s house, it had been too late to pick them up when I’d got back in, and to be honest, I didn’t see myself staying too long. Check out the new PR guy, placate Brian, see the Candidate, and then bow out gracefully had been my plan.

But that was before I saw Chris Kennedy.


Please follow the blog for latest on book release and special launch offer.

My Blog to Book is about completed. It’s been hard getting here. I have left behind the person that I once was, I have changed from the person I once knew,
I’ve wasted days and nights on rotten love.
I’ve traded happiness for sad, and trust for paranoia. But I believe as I complete my pilgrimage it will come right again. This is the story of emotional abuse as a psychological thriller.

 

Eventide Love #10/1 – Dark Wildness

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I kissed him like he was my God, and I his protector. I kissed him with a desperate, dark wildness. I kissed him hard with my tongue, my teeth in utter abandonment. A storm built in both of us as he laid siege to my desire, his hands sliding down my body, clasping my ass, entering me with a savage drive. At that moment we became lost in our universe as two uncomplicated fucking beasts. In that flash instant, he intoxicated me in a frenzied desire for his sheer physical strength, for his passion, for his stimulation, my life fueled by his breath. I convulsed from the savagery of his kisses, his fucking, penetrating with callous intent and right then I knew I could never be without this man in my life. My intellect captured, frenzied lust exploding as he pummelled me I clung on fucking him as if my life depended on it. It was the one fuck of a lot of fucks.

What I did not know then is that my life would become depending on his fucking me. In my longing for the euphoria that his passion leads me to, I gave him every piece of myself, every thought, every dream, every fear, my sheer physical strength, my soul. And with the bones of my life exposed to his carnal desires, no longer protected by skin, my life in the heart beat of the craving disintegrated like a rotting skeleton. He was hard and skillful and persistent and had a mortal heart. Even with all my super powers, I was never going to survive his prowling presence.

Eventide Love #10

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London
6.15pm

I am in a black hole my life moving slower and slower through time as I approach the phone, pick it up and start to dial the number. Transit through time as I have come to live it will halt, as my horizon fades completely from view torn and crushed.

The constant fear and muddled emotions like a blue frost caught me. As ‘She’ answered “hello, hello’ I freeze, dropping the receiver. Maybe I could wait until tomorrow, hold on to another day with Chris. I am desperate for him not to contradict me, not to swear ‘She’ does not exist but admit that the ‘non-entity’ as he describes her is in fact, his constant companion. At least then he would show me a gleamer of truth, of honest love.

I am frantic not to believe I am paranoid and crazy as he insists. Like some supernatural presence, I can sense ‘Her‘ being in his life, in our life. I am struggling to surface from a limited perspective of my one-dimensional life with Chris. My life is falling apart; I am fading like a dying bulb into darkness. I am terrified of the future without Chris but even more terrified of my life with him.

My constant knot of anxiety tightens, wrenching my gut, retching I rush into the bathroom, grab hold of the sink, turn on the tap and splash water on my face in an attempt calm myself down. My body is shaking uncontrollably. I lean against the cold stone of the basin and slowly raise my face to the mirror. I appear opaque. A dark shadow of myself. Suddenly, terror-struck at the ruthless solitude of my situation. My body swooned as I realised that no food had passed my lips all day, I was weak, tired and sick. My mind filled with one thought. Oh my God, Chris was a plotting profligate–a base and low rake who had been simulating undying love, to draw me into a snare he deliberately laid to strip me of my dignity, rob me of my self- respect and capture my life. A sharp pain in my chest caught my breath, and I struggled for air. He swore to me that ‘She’ was not his partner, that I was paranoid, jealous and ridiculous. I now know my time is limited and that exposing him and his lies are the only thing that will save me. But I am not ready for this right now. I know deep down that the moment will come, in which I will make that call that will explode my life.

7pm

I look all around, the darkness shrinking in and the sidewalk trees standing over me like an army of guards. The Skyscrapers like a jungle shielding the tears falling from the sky. The city is not just buildings and people. It feels like a battlefield of my losing fight.

For a second I wonder should I just give in. But then my mobile rings, and it’s Chris. I find myself off balance for a moment, and then my mind instinctively shifts back to the present moment. I answer the call.

“Hi, How are you? I miss you. I hate you being in London and me all alone in Dublin” he bellows sounding full of the joys of life.

“I am okay darling.” I gasp. I take a deep breath to steady my voice. “I am walking to the Frieze Art Fair opening. It’s lashing, can I call you when I get into a dry, quiet place.”

“Okay, but make it quick. Don’t keep me waiting. I want to talk to you. Love you loads.” and Chris hung up.

A frigid gust of wind sweeps up; I wrap my jacket tightly around me as I quicken my step to Regents Park where Frieze Art Fair is based.


This is story of Eventide Love.

We are on the way with Eventide Love; blog to book. A factual fiction, psychological, erotic thriller based on the Presidential Election set in Ireland 2011/2012.

If you would like to receive a book launch offer especially for all of you as loyal followers and fans, please register below. Your details will not be shared. I am wracked with doubts and insecurity about my writing but am lucky to have a wonderful editor, Amy Scott, holding my hand.

Meet the Author

Eventide Love #9/1

 

Symptoms-of-Drug-Addiction-AOur Romantic attraction was like some mysterious chemistry, a storm of electrified senses that overcame us. Our vision one off loveliness or hunkiness standing near. Flutters erupted in the belly. The heartbeat quickened. Adrenaline rushed to the bloodstream. Hallucinogenic feelings of intoxication drenched the brain. During opening stages of our romance and subsequent passion, the brain was awash in drug-like chemicals. It was a natural high, and like drugs, the feeling became addictive.

My drive for love, for closeness caused me to become a junkie, to make bad choices and impede my ability to move away from the “amphetamine-like high” of the beginning of our romance. Eventually, I was plunged into gut-wrenching despair, this rocketing from the high and lows of my craving for Chris, who fed and starved my addiction.

The wild, mercurial relationship shackled me to an opiate-like anxiety. I was living on the edge of life. I longed for serenity, for the harmonious security of attachment.  I was so stuck in the addiction I did not sense that Chris’s developing ambivalent attitude to our relationship, to my addiction, was killing me, and he was on a high from my slow destruction.

This is story of Eventide Love.


We are on the way with Eventide Love; blog to book. A factual fiction, psychological, erotic thriller based on the Presidential Election set in Ireland 2011/2012.

If you would like to receive a book launch offer especially for all of you as loyal followers and fans, please register below. Your details will not be shared. I am wracked with doubts and insecurity about my writing but am lucky to have a wonderful editor, Amy Scott, holding my hand.

Meet The Author

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