Chiaroscuro Chapter 12

Everything is lost.

Dearest Readers,

Some weeks, inspiration hits me like a slap from a wet fish - unexpected and bracing. Other weeks, I sit in silence, waiting for anything to land on my proverbial desk. The waiting feels endless, as though inspiration itself has gone on holiday without me.

This week, I’ve been retreating, cocooning myself away from people. The end of the year is a whirlwind of events, catch-ups, and excuses to drink too much. A part of me thrives on the connection, the shared moments that keep us tethered to one another. But another part of me craves solitude. I need headspace - time away from distractions to write, to untangle my thoughts, and to find myself again.

The thing about being a writer is that I’m always watching. Observing. Monitoring. Looking for inspiration in every interaction, every fleeting glance, every moment of silence. It’s both a gift and a curse. Over time, it becomes overwhelming, overstimulating. I overthink. Overanalyse. Overreact - or so I’m told.

People often question my writing, wondering if my fiction is veiled reality. It’s a common misconception, I think. Of course, life inspires the writing - how could it not? But it’s rarely verbatim. Personal references sneak in like uninvited guests, shaping the story without overtaking it. Fiction isn’t just reality in disguise; it’s reality reimagined, filtered, and transformed.

For me, writing is a remedy, albeit a messy one. It’s cathartic but chaotic, like peeling back layers of myself I didn’t know were there. The act of writing doesn’t always bring clarity. Often, it’s more like wading through the fog, trusting that the process itself will lead me somewhere worth going.

But that’s the beauty of it, isn’t it? Writing is where I find both the chaos and the calm. It’s where I turn silence into stories, solitude into sanctuary, and uncertainty into something that feels, if only briefly, like understanding.

Joey xx

---

To my paying subscribers, Emery is back for another instalment of Chiaroscuro.

Chapter 2 Part 2 is now live for free subscribers for a short time. But, be warned - this chapter contains drug use and sex scenes. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!

Chapter 11 recap

Emery prepares for her debut exhibition at Street and Co. Gallery, feeling both pride and nervousness as she sees her paintings transformed in the polished space. The show, titled Shadow Work, is inspired by a fictional story she created, masking the real-life events involving Liv265. Curated with thoughtful input from Alexis Grant, who wrote the accompanying essay, the exhibition explores themes of love, manipulation, and resilience. Emery's father and close friends show their support, while Rupert delivers a grand introduction, likening her to revolutionary artists like Picasso.

Despite encouragement from her friend Quentin, Emery is disappointed by Liv's absence but resolves to focus on the event. The evening takes a tense turn when Cliff Hersain arrives, unbalancing Emery with his presence. She steadies herself, refusing to let him overshadow her moment, but observes him having a private meeting with Rupert. Cliff's abrupt departure leaves her feeling deflated, and Rupert's subsequent conversation with Emery hints at high stakes: Cliff wants to acquire all her larger works, raising questions about his intentions and the implications for her career.

---

Chapter 12

Emery sat huddled on the studio floor, tracing the ridges of dried paint splattered across the concrete. The air held the ghost of turpentine and poppyseed oil, sharp but stale, a memory of the life it once fuelled.

The Offer of Sale document from Street and Co. lay crumpled in her lap, its edges softened from days of being folded, unfolded, and smoothed flat again. She ran her thumb over the embossed logo before pressing the paper onto the floor. The words glared up at her, relentless, accusatory.

With a sudden jerk, she tore the document in two. Then again. And again. Each rip sent shreds of paper scattering around her like fallen leaves. Her breaths came fast, catching like a car ignition struggling to turn over. When the paper was reduced to a meaningless pile of fragments, she pressed her palms against the cold concrete, grounding herself as a heat rose through her chest.