Emotional Anguish

Some people think writers live in their own worlds and have difficulty in forming romantic relationships.
They are totally wrong, for I am in love with a wonderful man.

My feelings for him would be mere, gross, bodily lust if he were stupid and ordinary, but he is handsome, slim, fit, lissom, with muscles that ripple gently but purposefully when he moves. He is intelligent, sensitive, refined and artistic.
All of this means that my feelings for him are not lust, but a profound, lasting and deeply spiritual love.

Knowing that he seethes with repressed passion which waits only for the right woman – me - to ignite its flame, yet that he is unaware that I exist, is very difficult for me.

I find the only way to dull the sharpness of my pain is to drink red wine in large quantities.

But the escape from suffering is only temporary for, always, the bottle is eventually empty.

Actually, it isn’t eventually, it’s infuriatingly quickly.

At night, I dream that he and I talk for hours, discovering one another’s innermost thoughts and feelings and understanding each day a little better why we are soul mates.

More importantly, we bonk one another's brains out.

In reality, though, it can never happen for, although Paul Heartfelt would, of course, love me in return if we were to meet, he is a character in my novels.

What tragic irony! I created the perfect man for me and I am unable to get my hands on him.

Still, as I learned on the holiday - I mean creative writing course - in the Algarve, the best fiction writing comes out of emotional anguish.