It’s been over a month since my last post, Orange. I loved writing that story and it seems you (and possibly your friends or whoever y’all shared it with) loved reading it too. Saucy minxes. There’s something magical about creating fictional worlds to escape into. It keeps life interesting if you know what I mean.
Honestly, it feels longer than a month since Orange was posted. I didn’t realise how much writing kept me sane until I wasn’t doing it. Sure, I could have carved out time for it, but it was summer, I wanted some time off, and you know how time disappears like water through a sieve when you’re out of routine and trying to “enjoy” life.
The mental load of caring for a four-year-old with no reprieve can get overwhelming. I love being a mum, but it’s not my entire identity. It’s hard to explain to people who don’t have children just how intense full-time parenting can be. It’s a constant tug-of-war between loving every moment and feeling exhausted. Over the summer, I started to feel burnt out - like I had no mental capacity for writing or using the creative part of my brain at all.
There are whole parts of me that exist beyond the words I put out into the world - thoughts I keep close, feelings too tangled to articulate, moments too raw to share. Writing has always been a way to process, to make sense of things, but lately, I’ve felt like I’m standing outside of it, watching from a distance.
Maybe that’s part of the ebb and flow of creativity, or maybe it’s just exhaustion. Or maybe it’s that strange pressure that comes with being perceived - when the act of sharing starts to feel like performance rather than catharsis.
Either way, I’m here now, back at my (proverbial) desk, reconnecting with the part of myself that feels most like me. Writing has always been a home I can return to, no matter how much time has passed. The words might come slowly at first, but I know they’ll find their rhythm again. And there’s something exciting about that - about starting fresh, about seeing where the next chapter takes me.
I’m looking forward to sharing my writing projects over the next few months. I’m currently knee-deep in editing and writing for an arts magazine and am trying to keep the updates happening on my socials. Follow along if you fancy.
Since it’s still, technically, the start of a new year (I know, it’s February - where did January go?) and I’m feeling generous, message me via the button below if you’re a free subscriber and would like to read Chiaroscuro and I’ll send you a 7-day free subscription.
It’s been a while between chapters, so I’ve recapped the last two below.
Happy reading.
Joey x
Chiaroscuro recap
Emery, overwhelmed by the weight of her decision, sits in her studio, staring at the Offer of Sale from Street and Co., knowing that signing it would mean selling her work to Cliff Hersain. In a final act of defiance, she tears the contract to shreds, rejecting his influence over her art. When Rupert Street calls, demanding confirmation that she’s signed, she stands her ground despite his warning that she’ll be blacklisted from the industry. Alone in the silence, she feels the crushing reality of what she’s done.
Seeking refuge, Emery returns to her childhood home in Cronulla, where her aging father welcomes her with quiet understanding. She tries to keep up appearances, but guilt and failure consume her, leaving her unable to paint. One evening, she finds an old self-portrait in the attic; a bold, fearless version of herself she no longer recognises. Her father reminds her that she’s always painted for herself, not for galleries or validation, and that she cannot let Hersain take that from her. That night, staring at the portrait, a spark returns. It isn’t quite longing, but something stirs - a quiet, determined promise that Hersain won’t have the last word.
Emery, overwhelmed by the weight of her mother’s past, sits at the kitchen table in her childhood home, waiting anxiously for Liv’s arrival. Amongst old photographs and sentimental belongings, she clutches a letter - an unsettling, cryptic apology from Cliff Hersain to her mother. When Liv arrives, Emery shares the discovery, her bitterness mounting as she realises just how much Cliff has gotten away with. Their conversation is interrupted by Quentin, arriving with one of Emery’s paintings from her failed exhibition with Street & Co. Their shared frustration lingers until Emery’s phone buzzes: Alexis Grant, the curator who wrote about her work, has a proposition. She wants to include Emery’s series in an upcoming exhibition, Reclaimed Narratives, and incorporate Liv’s story - a chance to expose the truth, to challenge the silence.
Just as a flicker of hope emerges, Quentin reveals something even more damning: internal records from Rupert’s gallery, showing a pattern of financial manipulation. Emery’s mother was one of many artists exploited - her work sold after her death, with Cliff and Rupert pocketing the profits. The revelation turns Emery’s grief into resolve. This isn’t just about her mother anymore; it’s about every artist Cliff and Rupert have used. The three of them sit in a charged silence, knowing they can’t let this stay hidden. But if they’re going to take these men down, they need irrefutable proof - something that no one can ignore.
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