Lucid Dream

April 12, 2021 by E A Carter

cracked old brick wall stitched together with iron studs

I woke from a lucid dream this morning. In it, I existed in a small section of an abandoned office building and had to leave, to move to another country. This much I remember, even if the details of the white walls and glass windows are vague. I had to leave. I had to go. I was being sent away.

I didn't want to go, but I had no choice. All was decided for me, as it always was with them.

And then they came, one by one, first my ex-mother-in-law pretending to care, but only there to learn my weaknesses so she could exploit me. She notes my impoverished state and tells me of their and my ex-husband's financial wealth and security, of their luxurious purchases, while I listen, my stomach hollow with hunger.

Even though I am dreaming, I think: This is just like the black year I reeled into the abyss they created, falling, helpless as they stripped me of my home, my car, and my life piece by agonising piece - a bleeding, injured thing. She continues to tell me of things she has bought, terribly expensive, frivolous things. Salt in the wound. She keeps talking, telling me perhaps she might take me out to lunch since I look very thin. All of it delivered with a kindly, motherly smile. I lunge for that love and hate myself for it. Because I know it's a lie. The worst of all betrayals. To love a mother figure who does not love you at all.

For a time, I thought she was the mother I never had. I built her into that person. I baked her cakes, and brought her treats to make her smile. It's my fault, of course. Falling for it all.

It was me who told her all that fateful April afternoon sitting at her expensive design dining table, surrounded by an art gallery's worth of art - of what her son had been doing to me for years, why I wanted to move closer to them, thinking it might make me safer, but it had only gotten worse. I wept the awfulness of it out, panting with fear, an ugly mess, twirling my marital rings nervously against my finger, as if touching them could somehow magically make it all better. I confessed her perfect son was hurting me and couldn't take it anymore, I pleaded with her to help me. To please help me. To help us.

Ah, what a naïve fool I was.

My dream continues. My ex-father-in-law turns up pretending to be concerned for me, to help dismantle another piece of my life that is too big for me to manage alone. He was always so kind, I loved him too. But my god, was he dangerous. He even fooled my father who thought he would care for me in my father's absence. Ah no. Not at all. He would come to me and threaten me to sign papers that gave all to his son and menaced me to cooperate until I wept. All while his wife looked on at me silence. Even she looked guilty. Even her. But I didn't sign.

I didn't sign.

It was he who said he would take me to court, who paid the fees, who dragged it out and out and out. At times I think even my ex-husband wants it to end, but my ex-father-in-law cannot bear to be withstood by someone like me. A mere girl who only writes stories. I was pointless to him. I deserved to be put in my place, and so he took his millions and set about doing so.

How could I ever trust anyone again? It wasn't just my ex-husband, it was three. My family of ten years. All of them clever, self-serving, and wicked beyond belief. They fed on my loss, savored it. Enjoyed watching me suffer, encouraged my suffering. Like a cat with a dying, eviscerated mouse crawling away from the pain, from its tormenter, its entrails trailing after it - they watched me crawl. They watch me crawl. Still.

And then he came. My ex-husband. And this time he didn't want to hurt me. This time, a plot twist. This time he was kind. He said: Please let me help you move your things. I want to help you. I looked at him, saw him. Not the enemy anymore but the man I fell in love with more than a decade ago. I thought:

I can do this. I can go.

I just want him to be happy. As long as he is happy, I can be ok.

So I piled my things into boxes and bags like a homeless person, and the empty office became steadily emptier, the three of them coming back and forth, carrying my life away, kind, smiling, gentle, and me feeling like maybe it will all be alright somehow.

They take the last of my things: my clothes. I go to the window to see the completion of the fruits of our efforts, the moving van waiting to take my life to another world.

I sink to my knees, silent horror crawls into me, familiar, brutal, ice cold. Three dump trucks idle on the side of the road. My ex-husband tosses my clothing into the middle dump truck's box. He dusts his hands, as if my things are dirty. My beautiful dresses spread across the remains of a fractured glass cabinet, pinned to its jagged pieces like dying butterflies. My life's possessions stare back at me, broken, transformed into trash. My antiques, my art, my books. My wine glasses shattered. Chaos.

They each get into a truck, my ex-mother-in first, then my ex-husband, and finally, in the rear, my ex-father-in-law. The roar of their acceleration reaches me as they pull away, the finality of their act pinioning me with shock. I weep, and scream until my throat tastes of blood, helpless. It's already over but I smash my fists against the plate glass, three floors up, anyway. As if it somehow could change things, even when I know it won't.

I wake. Grief and horror follow me. I search for something to stave off the terror that claws at me anew. They are coming after you. They are not done. There will be more.

A detail remains as I rise to begin my day.

The trucks were pure white. Pristine. Perfect. Things of beauty, in fact.

And in its wake - Fear.

Finding Freedom

April 10, 2021 by E A Carter

I recently finished “Devs”, the brilliant 8-episode hard sci-fi series by Alex Garland, the visionary mind behind the films “Ex Machina” (2014) and “Annihilation” (2018).

“Devs” is a delicious, dialogue-driven visual and aural feast that has the audacity to successfully address some of the biggest philosophical and scientific questions we face as humans: Questions I spend an extraordinary amount of time thinking (and writing) about. (Possibly to the detriment of my mental health, but there it is. I am what I am.)

This series’ deep appeal is it’s smart. “Interstellar” smart. It’s obvious Alex did his science homework. (A rare thing in sci-fi offerings these days). But it’s beautifully done and not so clever only PhD’s who spend their careers running experiments of the effects of quantum foam on waveforms would enjoy it.

Perhaps a general interest in quantum physics, ancestor simulations, consciousness, and in particular Everett’s many-worlds theories would help to enhance a viewer’s experience, but I’d like to believe those who know nothing about any of these things would still find “Devs” an immersive, thought-provoking experience because at its core it’s asking us to question what we hold as “true” simply because that’s how we perceive it.

“Devs”’s beauty is how it operates on multiple levels, visually, theoretically, and aurally in stunning sound effects, haunting music, and beautiful, constrained, powerful dialogue - all pleasing foils to its mind-bending themes each with no beginning or end, as satisfying as a hypnotic series of fractals.

Yes, I know. I am going full science geek here. I love this stuff. Probably almost as much as I love the idea of love. Almost.

I have no idea why, but ever since I can remember I have been troubled by the very questions this series conscientiously addresses, so for me, it was cathartic to experience it as I sipped a Malbec, scribbled frantic notes, asked questions, referenced science journals, and waited in agony for Alex to slip up - to paint himself into a corner and force us to take a nonsensical, word-salad driven short cut out of the series to end our collective misery and crush the burgeoning love affair with what he was doing to my mind.

But he didn’t. And “Devs” stayed where I hoped it would stay, stamped into the weave of my hungry soul alongside “The Science of Interstellar”, “Rendezvous with Rama”, “The Time Ships”, “Manifold Trilogy”, and “Tau Zero.”

My solitary criticism is the sprinkling of Judeo-Christian references and imagery which made me uncomfortable. For such a clever concept, why drag in theology? I suppose it was a nod to religious viewers, to not alienate them; to give them hope there could be something to their beliefs. But for me, I felt it shamed his work a little, that those images, and nods could have been excised and nothing would be lost - if anything much would be gained.

What I loved most was how a fundamental problem that threads between the foundation of consciousness, the many-worlds interpretation, quantum collapse, and determinism v. free will which has been plaguing me for all my adult life, of which I have researched endlessly at last folded together into a beautiful whole.

This question wasn’t directly addressed in the series, but the door I have been trying to unlock for decades at last opened for me, and with this revelation - of the pieces finally fitting together - of seeing the complexity of the whole and falling into its infinite abyss is beautiful. Liberating. A kind of freedom from the pain of a mortal existence.

Another day I might weave it into a story, but for now, this one’s for me to savor.

“Devs” is available to stream on Hulu in the US and on BBC iPlayer in the UK.

It is enough.

March 20, 2021 by E A Carter

Today I watched The Stanford Prison Experiment. And who did I see in those sadistic guards and dehumanized prisoners? An accurate metaphor of You. And me. That claustrophobic basement corridor, three cells, and isolation closet buried in the depths of Stanford University's Jordan Hall: the boundaries of my brutal, tyrannical marriage to you.

Yesterday, the court ruled on the asset case you dragged up to them, a case you fuelled for over a year with the plain intent to destroy me financially, to ensure I am left with nothing, not even what I am legally entitled to according to Swedish law. Your creative accounting, fabrication of debt I should owe you because you were my husband, of forging my name on fraudulent agreements that never existed to 'chip away' (to borrow one of your most favorite phrases) the assets I should otherwise legally receive. Your intention was glaringly obvious - not content to have everything, you also pushed to leave me in debt to you: A man who earns 50,000 kr a month, drives a 5 series BMW and lives a life of luxury, while I rent a bedroom in my best friend's house, drive her car and survive on my writing.

I grant you this: You kept every word of your many promises to eviscerate me, to leave me with nothing, to ensure I would be nothing and no one without you. For me being the creative one, I applaud the depths of your imagination to make what even the judge stated should have been a simple, straightforward case into a long, complex, and convoluted one.

But that's how you always were. Complex. Convoluted. Dangerous. So really, you are only doing what you have always done. Only this time you pulled the Swedish legal system into it. You lied to the bank, you lied to the court. You lied to me. You lie. That's all you do. Lie. Lie. Lie until you believe it's real. And then you tell people not to deny your reality. Just like you did to me for years.

I don't know if you have already received the court's decision yet. I certainly haven't having been forced to move to another country to ensure my mortal safety. So you will know the answer before me. And soon you will know exactly where I live when you receive the decision. Lucky you. Unlucky me.

You must be feeling vindicated in this, at least. You love control. Power. Leverage. Having it all. And again you have it. If you lose the case, you will be furious. Because the court will have denied your reality. And it will be me who will pay the price for your fury. You can come and get me at any time now. But here's the thing: I have not remained silent as I have recovered from the horror of what you did to me. I am present, loud and clear on social media, on my website, and online. Everywhere. I exist. I matter. I picked myself up from the depths of the darkest hell and got back on my feet. Alone.

You told me hundreds, no, thousands of times no one would ever care about me, or love me after you disposed of me, that I was worthless shit. It seems you were wrong. People do care about me. A lot of them. I have learned what you hated in me, what you made me hate in myself, others love.

You said you would never be happy until I was dead. When you thought I had died in Poland, the house suddenly went up for sale. When you learned I was still alive a month later, the house was pulled from the market, even when there was a buyer. How disappointed you must have been to know I didn't die, that I had kept breathing, and all because someone cared about me, a man, who caught me at the last moment and struggled for two hours to keep me alive. Even when I told him I resented him for interfering with my anguish. Even then. He wouldn't let me go. He held on. And I am glad he did.

Soon you will know where I am, but the police have been informed of my situation. Fortunately for me, the UK is not Sweden, there is much more protection for me here. The authorities will know the second you land on UK soil and will warn me you are here. However, I know painfully well how clever and resourceful you are, and that you have access to considerable funds from your parents. Who knows how far you will go? What you are willing to do to ensure my destruction, to right the inevitable wrong you think I present simply from existing. I have learned not to underestimate you. I may not survive your hate. But I will not fall in silence. My words will follow me on social media, on my website and in my books. In this message that took enormous courage to write...and post.

Know this: You cannot ever silence me. Not even in death. My words will go on. Will speak for me long, long after I am gone. And for me, it is enough.

More than enough.

A Love Letter to Writers

March 11, 2021 by E A Carter

If you’ve been wondering whether you are alone in feeling like your writing journey is going a little slower (or has come to a full stop), you are definitely not alone.

I spend a lot of time writing, or thinking about writing, or just writing about writing.

Lately though that’s changed. At first I thought I was burned out after three years of 14 hour days. Then as the weeks passed, and the words still didn’t flow, I started to fear my mojo was gone.

Or, maybe I had used up all my words writing my series and my creative “well” had dried up.

But as the pandemic deepened, newsletters from indie authors I subscribe to started to trickle in: Derek Doepker. Kristen Keiffer. Nick Stephenson. Derek Murphy. David Gaughran - each heavyweights in the indie writer’s community.

They wrote how they too were facing the same challenge. And these are experienced, professional authors. People who write every day for a living. Even for them, the fountain of words had turned into a trickle. David even talks about having lost interest in reading fiction, which we all know is serious when a writer doesn’t have the energy to invest in reading.

Which means...

If you’re struggling to write, edit, or just create in general. It’s not you. It’s what’s happened to us and what happened to our world - to all the things that fed our creativity. But it’s going to be okay. More on that in a bit.

At first we thought it would just take a little time to weather the storm as we collectively knuckled down and dealt with the new obstacles our quarantined life created. Some of us wrote on Twitter and Facebook how much we loved having more time to write, but now, almost a year later, we look at our WIPs and wonder what happened to that enthusiasm, because what we thought would happen, didn’t.

The pandemic has changed our world, changed how we create, and massively impacted our sources of inspiration and motivation. No more coffee shop writing, no more write-ins, no more book clubs. No more book shop browsing, author signings, or writer’s conferences. We were isolated. In every way.

Which means we were forced into a kind of stasis. According to the dictionary, stasis is defined as: “a period or state of inactivity or equilibrium”. Great. Also: Sounds familiar.

Of course, we may have had pre-pandemic works we were able to complete, but when we needed the energy to edit or get feedback we found ourselves facing a new obstacle. Ourselves. The pandemic came not only with a deadly virus but a reverse zeitgeist of ennui, a creative itch we couldn’t scratch, and a je ne sais quoi that no amount of Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream could banish.

How to overcome this? As someone who fell deep into the hole of pandemic writer’s angst, I spent a lot of time thinking about this...what has helped me are a few things:

First off: How we frame what’s happened can make or break us. We can look at what’s happened as a loss - of the time we have lost writing; all the experiences we are not having; of the stimulation we are not getting just by being out and mingling with the world.

On the flip side, this time can be seen as our period of “dormant growth”. Compare it to the winter when the trees become bare only to explode with life in spring. They may look dead, but they are not. They still continue to grow in their quietude until the hard times pass, conserving their energy for better days.

This is our winter, we feel barren but we are not. Absolutely not. The critical issue isn’t creativity, it’s still happening, just very quietly in our subconscious. The critical issue is Motivation.

And we are not motivated because all the things that energized us have been taken away one by one as if they were privileges and not rights.

So how do we motivate ourselves when each day bleeds into the next and looks exactly the same?

This is where we have to get a little creative (and hey, that’s what we are good at!). A shift in thinking to pivot to ways we can give ourselves the most lift and feel good.

Here’s a few ideas I have tried (and liked)...maybe you will like them too...

Connect with other writers, digitally, or via video or zoom calls. Even if others don’t have the energy to give you feedback on your writing, just connect. Or talk about what you’re watching on Netflix. Share your story ideas. Listen to theirs. Sometimes just talking can give you new ideas. Simply note them down. Let them rest. Don’t push yourself. Cherish every gem you uncover and save it for later for when you feel motivated again (and you will, I promise).

Walk. Lose yourself in the here and now and just soak it all up. Notice the weirdness of our world, and how we are all living in a reality we could never have imagined 18 months ago. This is the stuff of fiction, and we are living it in real time. They say to write what you know. Well, this is pretty good material if you want to write dystopian fiction. Probably the best material you’ll ever get. Go get it, tigers.

Have faith the writing will come but for now just saturate yourself in being. Notice the things you usually wouldn’t, make a mental note of it, or even better, treat yourself to a Moleskine notebook and note it down (so Ernest Hemingway). I like to write down things people say in films I think are meaningful. Just do whatever works, go with the flow, try new things. Explore outside your comfort zone.

Watch films. Read, if you can.

Just be.

And finally, learn. One of the greatest ways to pass a period of quiet is to improve on what you know. I have taken courses mainly on healing after a difficult divorce, but I also like to learn how to improve my craft. It’s a constant curve. There are always ways to be a better, stronger, and more impactful writer.

And remember...

“Writing is not about inventing life; it’s about reinventing what you have already lived.”

Rosemary Jenkinson, poet, short story author, nominee EU Prize for Literature

Here’s to your springtime of writing.

Love,

E A

E A's true story of survival, hope & healing.

February 22, 2021 by E A Carter in Narcissism

This is a true story. It is my story. I am here, today, because of grit, will, and the intervention of those who caught me as I fell into the abyss at the darkest point in my life.

I still wake screaming, panting, and scrambling out of the bedcovers, trying to escape the phantom of the one I once loved coming towards me, menacing, hateful, desiring nothing more than to break me, to end me. To hurt me. To destroy me.

The Lost Letters is my story. Every word is a chronicle of solitude, strength, survival. This is who I am. This is who I was. This is who I will never become again.

Elizabeth Anne Carter 🌺

Bookstagrammer Review of The Call of Eternity

January 31, 2021 by E A Carter

Bookstagrammer Asrar Lydia received a free book in return for an honest review.

You guys know that I absolutely loved The Lost Valor of Love, and let me just tell you that TCOE did NOT LOWER THE BAR. I feel like most sequels are either just brilliant or fall flat, and this one is 100% in the brilliant box.

The storylines that were built up in the first book came together in such a mind blowing way in this book, and I ADORE the way the author incorporated more fantasy elements and not only mythology ones in this instalment. I think it’s really cool when authors dare to do something extra with their books, especially when it catches you off guard. The incorporation of certain fantasy elements in this book really made the story that much richer in my opinion. It also makes the stakes for the next book that much higher, AND MY ANXIETY IS RACIIIIING GUYS!

Aside from world building, character arcs are one of my favourite things – something that this book is absolutely exploding with. I especially love the arc of Urhi-Teshub, the way he needs to compromise and grow in order to do what he has to do is probably one of my absolute favourite parts in this book. He was one of my favourites since book one, and I really like where his story is going. I have many theories about what will happen to him in the third (and final) book but most of all I JUST WANT HIM TO BE HAPPY.

Another very interesting character journey is Ahmen’s, I don’t want to say too much but his arc in this book makes me VERY excited to see his actions in the third one! He does do some.. uh many.. questionable things (to say the least – no spoilers) but since I like character development a lot I look forward to see where he is going!

Overall, this is just a rock solid 5 star sequel. EA Carter is one of my favourite authors, and I cannot stress how much I adore this series! If you like historical hot romance, this series is one for you – don’t sleep on it!

Get The Call of Eternity

Check out Asrar Lydia’s beautiful book blog here

Her gorgeous Instagram feed is here

Abandon those who abandon themselves.

December 08, 2020 by E A Carter

It's not easy to unmask a narcissist, and narcissists ensure there's always an element of doubt that lies in their favour. Your doubt is money in the bank for them, the longer you give them the benefit of it, and 'wait' for proof, the worse things will be for you.

Of all the people in the world undeserving of the benefit of doubt, it is a narcissist, because they purposefully use that goodness in you to set you up for your own destruction. Don't let them have the benefit of the doubt. Doubt them for all your worth. Because as time passes, and they expertly deflect those questions asked to make sense of all the things that don't make sense, they are working hard to convert you to their narrative. To their lies. And to the ruination of your life.

They will do everything possible to avoid allowing you to get to the root of your unease. For the sake of 'peace' and not upsetting them, you will decide to remain silent as your instincts retreat, denied their voice. Soon you no longer trust what you see and hear. Soon it is easier to just let them define reality. Define what's true and what's not. This is the death blow.

If you have reached this point, you have lost your last solid chance to escape with your heart and soul still intact. If you have crossed this line, getting out is going to be hard because you have already become a part of their narrative. Their lies are in you, poisoning your blood and eroding your soul. For those of you facing this awful situation, I suggest my book The Lost Letters to help you find the strength to face the darkness planted within you, and give you the hope you so desperately deserve.

But for those of you still in the early stages of being targeted by a narcissist and feeling like something isn't quite right, but you can't put your finger on it, listen to that! It's your instincts, it's your body right at its cellular level warning you of danger. It's primal. It's trying to save you.

If you are ready to face the monster behind the mask, here's an extremely effective way to tear that mask off to see who you are really dealing with. Let me warn you, if they really are a narcissist, it's going to be ugly.

Make sure to have your shoes on, and your car/house keys and mobile phone in your pocket (or whatever, you get the idea). Keep close to an exit. Make sure you have somewhere to go in case you can't come back. Plan this out. Confronting a narcissist is like walking into a cage with an angry, abused tiger. You are going to get hurt. There will be battle scars. Prepare.

If you are truly being groomed by a narcissist for supply, they are going to be very angry when you expose their crap narrative in all its infantile glory. They will not be gracious. They will take out their rage and humiliation on you. Be strong. Record it if you can, so you can listen to it later when you are feeling weak and want to call them to 'fix things'. (You can't. Ever.)

Here's what to do. It's not difficult in principle, but in practice, it's terrifying. And if just thinking about it makes you break out in a sweat, it's very likely you already have your answer. But if you want to be really sure, here's how to get the mask off. Fast.

Question their narrative. Make every word count because they will interrupt you (and likely begin to go on a full frontal character assassination attack) as soon as they realise where things are going. But while you have the time, pull it apart. Be smart. And ruthless. But do it nicely. There is no need to be mean, because you are not them.

Here's an example: "When you said no one ever helps you and you are always facing all your problems alone, how come you didn't accept the help of your uncle when you were moving house?"

If they are a covert narcissist:

a) You will get a long-winded word salad that very quickly pivots to their being the victim and you being part of the problem for not understanding why they couldn't possibly have accepted said uncle's help. You'll be blamed for upsetting them, made to feel guilty, and punishment will follow in the form of a huge sulk, closed doors, and silent treatment for as long as it takes to bring you back into line (meaning you never question their narrative again).

or if you have an overt narcissist on your hands (think Trump) ...

b) They become immediately enraged. They shout and storm around claiming that this proves everything, how no one cares about them or understands their pain. They might break things, or behave in an intimidating manner, threatening you with clenched fists and vicious words to annihilate and discredit you. They will storm out, slam the door, and not respond to your calls for a long time. You will have to apologise to get them to talk to you again so you can gain closure. Don't bother. That was your closure. And don't answer their calls when they inevitably come back to you for more supply.

Because if you get either of these two reactions. You. Are. With. A. Narcissist.

How can you be sure?

In a normal relationship, there is communication. If you bring up something that is important to you but disagrees with their narrative, yet relates to your needing to clarify what is murky (and made murky by them) and they resort to tactics of hostility, silence, accusation, and blame, you are dealing with a narcissist.

This formula will unfold each and every time you try to bring things to a place where you wish to feel heard, understood, appreciated and valued. They will never communicate. And they definitely do not value you. They don't want to. Their narrative is imperative to their survival. Anyone who questions it will feel the full effect of their wrath.

Also important to note...

If you feel afraid to question their narrative and that things will go badly for you, you are probably with a narcissist. You should never feel afraid to ask someone an honest question that is causing you discomfort in an intimate relationship.

If you lie awake at night trying to square up the inconsistencies plaguing your mind from what you are told compared to what you have experienced, you are probably with a narcissist.

If you feel tense whenever you are around them, afraid you might set them off over the slightest thing, you are probably with a narcissist.

If you have to agree with their version of how things happened (or are) to keep the peace, no matter how skewed it is from reality, you are very likely with a narcissist.

If you feel like you are exhausted every time you have been around them, as if your energy has been siphoned out of you, you are very likely with a narcissist.

If you feel like you can't trust what your senses are telling you, if you are plagued with doubt, if you feel worthless, unloved, valueless, afraid, broke and hopeless, then you are probably with a narcissist who's about to discard you...

You are not alone. I have been exactly where you are right now. At every stage. I barely escaped with my life, and needed to go into hiding in another country to protect myself. I have written this book to help other women avoid the trap narcissists lay. To aid others and to give them hope that they too can escape and begin again, stronger, better, and more powerful than ever before.

If you want to learn more about narcissists and how they target their victims, how to spot one trying to trap you, and how to escape if you've been trapped, you are in the right place.

The Lost Letters: The Dark World of Narcissistic Abuse came out February 14, 2021. And yes, the irony is intentional.

With love and compassion,

Elizabeth Anne Carter

The brutal legacy of narcissistic abuse...

October 08, 2020 by E A Carter

woman holding a heart symbol in her hands to a man's turned back

All women wish for is one who is powerful enough to confront the sorrow and pain behind the mask we wear. To see us as we are: vulnerable, broken, lost...half of a whole.

We wish for a hero, a god of war, yet we hide behind our mask, our protection, our armor, our enemy.

Afraid. Isolated. Drenched in longing. Calling to them. Pushing them away.

They come. The heroes, the gods. They assault our walls with love, with passion, yet our mask remains...we cling to it...our security, our safety. Our prison.

We watch them walk away. Their swords shattered and their armor sundered and weep through our mask.

We have learned the pain of the past is stronger than the love of the present.

And this is the most brutal legacy of all. To have not only her past stolen. But her future.

And yet. The mask was her salvation. How can she let it go?

With love.

Not from another.

From herself.

The Call of Eternity has been Shortlisted in the 2020 Page Turner Awards!

October 08, 2020 by E A Carter

Arundel House Press is thrilled to announce E A Carter’s second book in her Transcendence Series has been selected for the Shortlist in the 2020 Page Turner Awards.

A father's wise words in a dystopian world...

September 18, 2020 by E A Carter

Everyday I struggle with the negativity and bleakness in society since COVID-19 took over our lives.

To not be able to see each other, touch each other, even be near to each other is wearing. No...it's exhausting. It's hell.

A deep loneliness is ripping society apart fueled by alienation, fear, and pessimism. It hurts. A lot.

It's a dark time. And the fight is real. At times I flounder so much I feel like I have lost my compass. Lost myself.

I asked my father how to cope with this unprecedented dystopian situation and he said:

"Give service to others. Think of others more than yourself."

At first I didn't understand, wrapped up as I was in my own miseries. But then I started a little thing. I began to observe others for ways to express my appreciation or complement them.

And then I gathered up my courage and said something intended to make them feel nice, not really sure it would be ok.

Give service.

Total strangers. Shop workers. Table servers. Dog walkers. I couldn't see their smile, because of their mask, but I saw the light ignite in their eyes. The lowering of tension in their stance. The warmth awakening in them. The connection, stolen by COVID still there, longing to return.

And I felt the weight of their burdens lessen, just for a heartbeat.

Words are magical. Powerful. And unlike a hug, they can remain with the receiver, nourishing them and encouraging them long after you have forgotten what you've said.

My father is a wise man. I need to go tell him that. Right now.

❤️

From the Ashes of the Past, the Future.

September 11, 2020 by E A Carter

At 2.30 am, I wake, besieged by thoughts which have at last, escaped their confinement. They swarm over me, vengeful, hungry, sick of being silenced.

I fire up my phone to bathe myself in the glow of escapism.

An hour later I feel worse, depressed by the banality of social media. Emptiness haunts me.

The thoughts roar back and surround me, a pack of starving wolves. I know I will not escape this time. I have denied this moment for far too long. They snap at my heels, until I am cornered. Nauseous with terror, I go to the only place where I know solace.

In the bleak 4am light of my screen, I sit before my keyboard with its beloved letters worn away. A whisper of something moves through me. The truth I fear edges closer. I shiver. Courage eludes me. I light a candle and begin to write.

I knew this was coming. For weeks I could feel it in my bones. When I knew the barricades I had desperately bolstered would implode under the pressure of the choice I must make.

A crack appears in the one of the walls, it spreads, rapid, across its surface, spiderwebbing its way to the other sides. Walls reinforced with my blood, flesh, and bone. It hurts. It's almost unbearable. I bite my lip until it bleeds.

My fists clenched, I endure. It's part of the journey, in the end it will all make sense, but this part is horrible. I wasn't prepared for this, no one warned me. No one said in the aftermath of leaving, far worse would come after.

Fragments of the past cling to me, hold me hostage. The dissonance between the past and present is razor sharp. New and old clash, ugly and disconnected. I close my eyes and once more I am driving in Sweden under an endless stormy sky, lightning striking in the distance.

It's gone. It's over.

No. It's not. I am still there. I can taste the ozone in the air.

Let go.

I’m not ready. I don’t know who I am without my past. I hold still. My existence beneath me stretches across an endless abyss, taut as a wire. The past behind me, the future before. I tremble, longing to fall. Yet here I am. Writing. Fighting. Holding on.

The barriers shatter under the weight of my denial and the few feeble plants left in the parched garden of my hopes, loves, and dreams die before my eyes. I am eviscerated with anguish. I am bleak, alone. Empty. I look up and the one I cannot bear to face steps through the debris of my ruined defences.

She holds her hand out to me. The one who can give me hope, who can help me live again, who can give me purpose. I knew this was coming. I dreaded it. She is the one I must become, the final stage of the journey. She who has the strength to move past the pain, the sorrow, the lies, and the hopelessness that has been my sustenance for far too long. She who has the courage to face the unknown. To trust again. She who has the perseverance to finish what I started.

No. I am not ready. I look away from her, at what's left of my dying Self, and see myself with her eyes, how fear has turned me into a persona non grata in my own life, as I have fleeted, light through the days, careful to commit to nothing, not even a car, erasing myself until I am only one step away from vanishing.

I glare at her, defensive.

Never again. Never again will I trap myself. It hurts too much to lose it all. Walk light. Live light. That’s the only way to be safe from now on.

She waits. I ignore her and think of the 20 years of my life I piled into a shipping container hidden among an identical sea of containers. A massive metal door imprisoning my history in a tomb of darkness: Moments of happiness. Of sadness. Of all the seconds and hours that made me who I am today. Letters. Books. Photographs. My life buried alive. And it was I who buried it and drove away.

And now.

I wait.

For what?

For a reason to open the door and let the sunlight in again?

I think of my three passports, and know I should feel blessed, but instead I feel as if I belong nowhere. It hurts, this feeling of rootlessness after being deeply rooted for more than a decade.

I am not ready.

Still, she waits. I want her to go away so I can return to what's familiar. To the bleak island of uncertainty that is my only certainty in a world turned upside down, of drifting from one day to the next, thinking of nothing, just existing. Losing myself to time. Letting the days slip by. Doing what I must and nothing more.

I seek courage and look back up at her. Or, me but not me…the me I want to be. Sadness shrouds her as she offers her hand once again. I sense she thinks I will refuse her.

My time to choose is almost gone. The last of my waning self begins to disintegrate. If I don't go to her now, I shall be forever caught in the past, a phantom to my future. My chance to heal thwarted by none other than myself. How long would I last disconnected from my true Self? Not long. A year, at most before I would become someone else. Someone not me. Someone who lost herself.

I sense her presence. Strong, wise, honest, good, loyal. My true Self. The one I lost when I let another define, control and almost annihilate me. She is the only one who can save me from myself.

I realise I don't want to be trapped by past trauma and fear, forever frozen at the threshold of my future.

I lift my hand to hers. She smiles and pulls me to my feet. As I rise, the one I needed—the warrior who protected me for over a year—exhausted, breathes her last and turns to dust, the remains of a chrysalis of pain.

Light fills me. For a moment I am blind. I blink and view the world with new eyes. Everything is the same yet different. The shadows fall away. The wolves lay down to sleep, content, at last, their work done. On the other side of the ruined barrier, my future beckons.

I step through the parched earth of my dead garden. My past self’s remains stir in my wake and gently cover my vanquished hopes, loves, and dreams.

A little distance away, I kneel in the verdant soil of a new garden, waiting and made ready for me. In my hands new seeds of hope, love, trust, and dreams appear. I hesitate only for a moment to admire their golden beauty, purity, and purpose.

The warmth of the rising sun touches my shoulders. A bird sings.

I plant the seeds.

And begin to write.

Author’s Note:

For the entire month of October I will be in a secret location writing my non-fiction book The Lost Letters: The Dark World of Narcissistic Abuse (working title) for women caught in the trap of narcissistic abuse.

Its purpose is to help women understand the mind of their abuser, how they work, why they do what they do and why they tend to target successful, happy, talented, empathetic women and turn them into a broken, empty shells; how to survive the lies, gaslighting, verbal abuse, control, isolation, and constantly changing victim narrative; strategies to cope while in the relationship, ways to protect themselves, and how to get out safely; what to expect in the fallout of a breakup and how to prepare an exit strategy that works, plus gentle methods to heal the mind and heart so past trauma and triggers can be mitigated and a return to a life of peace and calm can be found again.

E A Carter

What Is Your Why?

September 05, 2020 by E A Carter

Whether we realize it or not, we live out the answer to this question every single day.

It's our through line. It's what keeps us going, even through the darkest of times.

A while ago, I watched 'Collateral Beauty'. The film opens with the main character asking the following...

“What is your why?

Why did you even get out of the bed this morning?

Why did you eat what you ate?

Why did you wear what you wore?

Why did you come here? Other than the fact that I would fire you and hire someone else if you didn’t show up for work, but not that, the BIG why.

We’re certainly not here to just sell shit.

We are here to connect.

Life is about people.

Advertising is about illuminating how our products and services will improve people’s lives.

Now - how do we do that?

Love.

Time.

Death.

These three abstractions connect every single human being on earth.

Everything we covet.

Everything we fear not having.

Everything we ultimately end up buying is because at the end of the day…

We long for love.

We wish we had more time.

And we fear death.

Love. Time. Death.”

In the aftermath of a year where I was so hunted and persecuted I came desperately close to ending my life just to escape, I thought I knew my Why.

Survive. Get out of Sweden. Start again.

It seemed clear.

With hindsight I see now it wasn't.

One can escape a terrifying situation. What one cannot prepare for is the shock of changing from high gear to low gear.

And then...

A new Why must be unearthed from the ashes of a dying past.

I realized my Why had been a temporary one, born out of crisis. Of need. But under that...the truth.

The ultimate Why.

And so: Love. Time. Death.

Let us begin at Death.

Three people kept me alive during my darkest times in Sweden. I reached out to them from a place of blinding despair, where the darkness beckoned and I yearned for it. For the silence. For the end.

Each had their own enormous burdens to bear, yet they set their troubles aside to aid me through the bleakest of times, when the call of oblivion was so strong I could hear nothing else. Wanted nothing else. They leapt across the void and caught me. None of them let me fall, not even when I fought them. Or, when I damned them.

Even then.

They never let me go.

Which means my Why was not Death. I do not fear Death.

Then...

Time?

No. I pace, uneasy and tormented through the days and nights of my life. Bleak. Empty. Determined to avoid accepting my Why. Time is the enemy. Time both drags on and speeds up. It hurts me. It mocks me as it spirals behind me, a near infinite thing, laden with hopes, fears, and dreams. Memories. Lies.

No. Time is not my Why. I do not wish for more time.

I hate Time. It hates me.

Love.

Ah and there it is, the irony. After days and nights of questioning it, of walking through the forests and fields in the wind, rain and sun, at last, I have come to face the truth.

And it hurts.

My Why is Love.

I get up for Love. I face the day for Love.

It gilds my soul and frames my dreams. It breathes life into my soul.

I write of Love. I dream of Love. I am full of Love. I would die for Love.

And this is the exquisite crux of my existence. Why I must drown my heart in the blood of Malbec.

I am lost without Love...

...and yet I am afraid to Love.

And for how long will this hold?

How long?

Will Love come again.

Destroy me again.

Or.

Heal me?

The Lost Valor of Love: The Wishing Shelf Book Awards Book of the Month May/June 2020

May 15, 2020 by E A Carter

‘An enthralling, multi-layered plot populated with fascinating characters. A GOLD MEDAL WINNER and highly recommended.’ The Wishing Shelf Book Awards

‘What a superb read; a clever often complex plot with a superbly described setting. Strong pacing too.’ Male reader, aged 43

‘Exciting historical novel set in old Egypt. Plenty of political trickery, betrayal, love, war in this wellresearched, lively novel. The author is very talented.’ Female reader, aged 54

‘A strong female hero to root for, a complex plot and a fascinating historical setting. This is a gem of a book. The author has a dynamic writing style, often poetical, which draws the reader in. A well-researched plot interwoven with solid historical research, I would recommend this to fans of historical fiction.’ Female reader, aged 67

‘I sat and read this on my laptop over three days. Couldn’t stop reading it. Will now hunt out all of this author’s books.’ Male reader, aged 38

Star Rating: 5 Stars

Gold Medal for Adult Fiction from The Wishing Shelf Independent Book Awards

April 27, 2020 by E A Carter

When I was growing up I always read the 'Gold Award' books and hoped one day I would write a book that would win a Gold Award...It took a long time, but here it is! The Lost Valor of Love with its Gold Medal for Adult Fiction from The Wishing Shelf Independent Book Award

The Choice Between Love and Loneliness

April 23, 2020 by E A Carter

Love. We seek it despite knowing it's going to hurt us, perhaps even break us. Yet we are willing to face the pain it will bring because the alternative for most, is worse.

To go to bed alone, to wake up alone, to eat alone, to watch a film alone. To shop alone. To travel alone. To watch a pair of cranes fly across the sky, alone. To drink. Alone.

I am alone. So far, this is my choice. But it is not easy. I was left by my husband almost a year ago and divorced by him just over six months ago. It still hurts, even though he was cruel to me at the end of our marriage, and left me for (at the very least, the hopes of being with) another woman he had been pursuing for some time. At times I still want him to come back. At others, I shudder at the thought and am grateful to be free of him.

Is it ironic I write of love, think of love, plan stories of love when I myself am essentially unloved and unwanted?

They say to write what you know. What does this author know? Does she know of the love she writes? Yes and no. Long ago, in her London days, one in particular gave a glimpse into the depth of the love her characters have explored, which still dwells in the hidden corridors of her heart. She immortalised him as Ahmen, although only in appearance, the rest is fiction, although perhaps not the tumultuous, passionate, broken love Ahmen possesses for Meresamun.

But the truth is E A Carter is waiting. Waiting for the one who will take her to the places her characters have been, to experience the purest of love, where loyalty and sacrifice are cemented into an unbreakable bond of eternal love.

Yet what does she find when she explores the reality she now finds herself in after more than a decade of being in a relationship? A cold, digital, disposable world where the beauty of love is plundered and violated via video calls and shallow words of pleasure shared with one partner after another in a virtual replay of Logan's Run.

A world where hedonism rules and love languishes. A world where lies are common currency and honesty is kicked into the gutter to die. She realises perhaps the love she writes about, believes in, lives for, is as possible to achieve in this loveless, selfish world as getting hit by an asteroid.

And yet. What else can be done? Somewhere out there in the desolate, barren digitalscape in which we are immersed there must be at least one kind, loyal, decent, honest, honorable man left who won't bow to the rape of love. A Sethi. A real man somehow still existing between the cracks of this soulless hell we have created.

If not, she will continue to wait. To dream. To believe.

And to write of love.

Alone.

Where Love is Transcendent

April 05, 2020 by E A Carter

As a writer, the passion of love fascinates me, consumes me, and drives me to craft ever more complex stories of the breathtaking places our hearts can take us. Stories of war, of enemies, of boundaries, of journeys into the unknown which transcend the barriers of space and time.

While speaking about Earth as the Pale Blue Dot, humanity's only home against the incomprehensible immensity of the universe, Carl Sagan once said: “For small creatures such as we the vastness is bearable only through love.”

He's not wrong. It is unbearable. We collapse ourselves into our lives, our thoughts, our hopes, fears, and dreams. And love. We fill ourselves with it. Wait for it, crave it, seek it, chase it, talk about it, dream of it, analyze it. And read it. Love. Its existence possesses me like an anguished thing desperate for its release—to liberate itself through my words in all its dark and beautiful glory.

In ages past, men and women have gone to war over love, have died for love, have sacrificed everything for love. We may live in quieter times, yet our souls still crave the magnitude of such epic, all-engulfing passion—of heroes and near-unconquerable cities such as Troy under siege for the sake of love. Within the innermost rooms of our hearts, each of us longs for the scope of an all-encompassing affair which smashes every barrier. It is the pulse of the star stuff within our souls, the seeking of an eternal connection that defies the unbearableness of our solitariness in a digital world which strives to separate us with every breath we take.

We know the pain love can bring, and yet we pursue it because the unbearableness of being alone is unnatural, unsustainable. If we must be alone, then we imagine being with the one our heart desires. At times it is all we can have, but it can be enough. For a time.

It is a quiet irony the man I loved with all my heart left me last summer for another younger, healthier woman. And yet, in the sudden days of my solitary existence I continued to write of love. I completed The Rise of the Goddess with a broken heart, channeling pain and sorrow into the final book of the Transcendence series. It turned out to be the most beautiful book of them all. Perhaps it was meant to be, that I should lose my love to write the book as it was meant to be written. Perhaps.

And now, as I rise broken and battered in the fallow fields of my loss, love has become an ugly, distorted thing. And yet, I still dream of love, still imagine heroic feats of sacrifice, of determination, of facing insurmountable odds and overcoming them. So my fingers fleet over the keyboard and I escape into dark worlds, beautiful worlds, where love is transcendent. I want to take you there. Because where there is love there is hope, truth, salvation, bliss. And stories take us there, away from our solitariness and into the hidden corridors of our hearts, where we find shelter from the storm of our existence.

And so, the stories will go on. So long as there is love, there will be stories to tell. Epic, glorious, breathtaking stories of undying love until our souls return to the stars. And it will be there, scattered across the heavens, as we wait for chance to tumble to the Earth once more, we will understand the truth. We are love.

The stories have been about us all along.

Phoenix Poetry and Prose by Feral Kenyon. Passion. Pain. Perfection.

April 03, 2020 by E A Carter

A phenonmenal collection of love, loss, and longing. If you have ever been destroyed by someone you love, you need this book. It speaks to the soul

An absolutely gorgeous book. Pure art. I devoured it in one sitting, then immediately told my fans and friends about it. Every woman who has ever experienced heartbreak needs this book. Ms Kenyon is one of the most talented poetesses I have ever come across. Buy this book. Buy this book. Buy this book. You will cherish it forever. It was written for you. For all women. Forever.

Phoenix: poetry and prose

By Kenyon, Feral

Buy on Amazon

Feral Kenyon's Site

@feralblacksheep Instagram

Awesomegang author interview March 2020.PNG

New Author Interview with Awesomegang!

March 29, 2020 by E A Carter

https://awesomegang.com/e-a-carter/

Review of The Mermaid's Call by Katherine Stansfield

December 22, 2019 by E A Carter

After six months without any mysteries to investigate and funds running out, a captain soaked to the skin blows in to Shilly’s and Anna's world. A month before, he had a terrible dream; the day before he discovers it has come true. A nightmare. A man's body found torn to pieces on the rocky shoreline of the Cornwall coast. He believes that man is his long-lost brother, murdered. But there is a strangeness surrounding the circumstances of the death, of a woman's anguished and unnerving cry which calls to those who can hear her and draws them to the deadly shore. Answers need to be found before they vanish back into the sea along with the one who called him there.

The Mermaid's Call is a beautiful book of a dark and lonely place, and darker doings, told in Ms Stansfield's poetic, evocative prose. Within heartbeats of reading the first sentence you are transported to a world where the rich and the poor face each other across a brutal abyss; where the expanse of hope and hopelessness is tangible, and the difference between society's stance on right and wrong is at best, vague, and at worst, meaningless.

The atmosphere of the forlorn, poverty-stricken hamlet of Morwenstow overseen by its wealthy vicar and his menagerie of cats seeps from the pages, drawing one in to a place so authentic and real, it leaves its tattoo in one's heart long after the last page is read and the book is closed.

Disposable World

December 03, 2018 by E A Carter

Written for the #PlanetOrPlastic contest. Proud to be joining National Geographic and Wattpad in the fight against single-use plastics. This is my story. All of it is true.

More than 8.3 billion metric tons of plastic has been created since plastic production began in the early 1950's. Of this staggering amount of plastic, comparable to the weight of 25,000 Empire State Buildings, 79% has ended up in the natural environment, where it will never break down.

Of the total amount of plastics produced since the 1950s, about half has been produced in the last 13 years. Plastic is only surpassed in global production by steel and concrete, both which have a far longer useful lifespan.

"Most plastics don't biodegrade in any meaningful sense, so the plastic waste humans have generated could be with us for hundreds or even thousands of years," said Jenna Jambeck, study co-author and associate professor of engineering at UGA.