I Need A Hero

Re-blogged from iNation (James McAllister) for his admirable words on everyday heroes, and his kindness.

I Need A Hero.

via I Need A Hero.


Finding the pulse of an ending

finding tina 2 sample coverToday, I’m staring at the blank screen.  My mind is not blank.  In fact, it’s full.. of words, information, and secrets.  My fingers are writing lines yet deleting whole paragraphs just written.

This is the one book where I’ve been unable to find the pulse of the ending- probably because in my mind when the book ends, so do I.

Or do I?  The book is a recovery writing series for me.  It’s a process, a work in progress, an unfolding of life happening.

I look at all the backups I have.. hundreds of unseen pages.  I read a chapter I wrote.  I then read my abuse blog posts and compare the times, seeing the link of the pattern.  I am the Healing Phoenix.  I am Tina. I am C.L. Bolin. I am me, they are all me.

If you’ve never read the first Finding Tina, the quick summary is this.  It is a true fiction about trying to heal and find love in the chaos of abuse, predators and violence.  It is my story.  It’s fictionally truthful.  It’s dark and frightening from the start.

The first chapter “To Capture a Peacock” begins from the predator’s eyes and he takes us through every thought process and desire.  Although I cannot fathom what would drive a person to do such things, I had to imagine the why’s.  What’s sobering is that anyone, if pushed to madness, has this capability to behave this way.  Some of us step back from the brink of madness, and others plunge into it mindlessly.

I grew up with a sibling with Multiple Personality Disorder and so I do understand the truth of how MPDs behave when one side of them shuts down and another flips on to run the body and handle the task at hand.  I’ve seen the process of fusing faceted personalities.  The book delves into that area of MPD.

The characters to the book: Tina (me), the Sandman (my soul mate), Officer Guire (a blend of two abusive predators in my life), Claire (familial abuse), and the abductor (childhood sodomy).

A mousy woman (Tina) in a bad relationship is abducted by a predator in a parking lot at night in pouring rain.  She vanishes for a year before returning mysteriously with subconscious programming and blank memories.  Tina is a cracked mirror held together in a pretty frame.. each broken piece of her is a fragment of memory and altered perception.  Her behavior is erotic and dangerous.  Phoenix is her autopilot personality during traumas.  Tina cannot trust anyone except the man in her dreams.

In real life, for domestic violence survivors, trusting others hangs by a thread.  Dreams are safe.. well, so they say.  Tina’s dreams are surreal, lucid yet also nearly hallucinogenic, and there’s a handful of nightmares in there.

I have yet to pick myself apart in analyzing.  Honestly, I try not to.  I’m evolving as I go- some days I don’t know how I can drag myself to present time or keep up with myself as I run past.  But every day is a nightmare myth to dispel on paper and every dream is something to embrace tangibly inside of me.

Thank you for being here on the journey.

A wild embellishment of truth

Lately someone I knew was leaning on me, stating they were unsafe and in danger, and asking for help.  The old me would have tried to take it on all by myself, but the new me.. the survivalist.. recognized my trap of self-sacrifice.  Instead, I passed it to authorities and bowed myself out.

Imagine my surprise when the authorities called me back, stating that it was a cry-wolf case.  The person didn’t want help and told the authorities I had a wild imagination.   Hm… “I’m loading a rifle out of fear for my life, he’s going to kill me.”  I read the words very carefully.  There was no wild imagination going on there on my end.

That person stopped communicating with me, knowing leaning onto me will get results they don’t want.  I’m not one of those types to turn the other cheek.  What they were after was rallying sympathizers that would not lift a finger to help but only offer a shoulder to sob on.

One of the biggest reasons I love being a writer is creating something amazingly tangible and so realistic you could almost live, breathe and taste the experience.  The con side I’ve experienced is disasters like this.  Sometimes people second-guess my word in regular living.  Not like a flat-out accusation of lying, but more so a wild embellishment of the truth.  It almost felt like I’d only be taken seriously if I wrote strictly documentaries or biographies or manuals.

Situations like that will never shackle me from my freedom of writing what I want, like I want.  It did make me more aware though of how writers can be unfairly criticized and judged.

Every day I write is an adventure

It's Elementary, my dear...

Welcome to my very first blog for my children’s book section of C.L. Bolin Books and Art.

My main genre is adult novels and recovery writing for trauma survivors; however I also write and illustrate children’s stories on the side for fun.  As I volunteer at times for the local elementary school and my child is in 2nd grade, no matter how much I love a good romance story I also love the magic and imagination that flows out of kid’s minds.

My child and I are constantly brainstorming each other!  She believes in unicorns, faeries and rainbows- and she loves a funny story.  So I’m frequently put on the spot for a last minute ditty on the way home, or a fresh bedtime story.  We’ve come up with alot together and sometimes she even does a drawing for the ideas.

I’m currently working on three stories for my…

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A glimpse into Life

I’ve been off-grid for a few days, my apologies.  There’s never a break for women in recovery.  Usually, we’re dealing with the same old issues that brought us here in the first place.  Sucks the romance right out of us.

I’m working on many things at once.  Two posts, three books and still working my job- along with dealing with the old issues.  Today, I feel like sharing.  I try to keep the two separate.  I have my professional life… and my real life.

For those that want to see what happened before I took the step for recovery writing, go here and read what I deal with on a daily basis.  I’ll be posting new writings hopefully tomorrow.

Cheers and love to all.

“Wisteria” a mostly true love story

It’s angel week in my house.  March 6 is the day my mother earned her Wings.

Understandably, my writing has slipped into nostalgic melancholies for a few days, as well as day three of insomnia.   I will be so glad for this time to pass.  My writing takes a crazy freak trip when I haven’t slept.  I never sleep well on angel week.

Mom passed this story to me.  A tragic love story.  For her, today, I will share.



Brushing the familiar fragrant blossoms aside, Linda gazed upon the serene river as calm as smooth glass.  The full moon reflected fully, a wistful mirrored smile of grey-blue, matching the strands of hair curling behind her aging ears that listened to the soothing night song of phantom baby frogs.

So many years had passed- some full of glory, some of regret.
Her children had grown, her grandchildren were close to becoming parents themselves.  Time had slipped through her fingers in handfuls of granulated moments as they slowly changed from long and graceful to gnarled, arthritic digits.
Unconsciously she rubbed the underside of gold worn thin from years of worrying.  As the ring dully winked in the soft moonlight, Linda gazed down at it, her mind shifting into old memories.

The frogs’ song drifted into a soft melody, breaking through her thoughts.
Leaning on her cane heavily, Linda eased her frail frame onto the worn flat rock behind her, grateful for the concerto floating to her from behind the reeds that gently waved in ghostly unison just off shore.
Her thigh highs were slowly inching down her swollen varicose calves in a constricting roll, but she paid no mind.  Her mind was drifting off, remembering, as she shifted her old hips to a comfortable position in the smooth spot in the rock she had created over time.

For the last sixty-two years, Linda had come here- sitting on the same rock, listening to generations serenading her, watching the shore change over time, watching herself change in the reflections.
This was her place.  Her place to remember, and seek solace from the man she had married out of desperation so long ago.

The aroma of purple sweetness lingering in the humid night air brought memories back in a rush.  Linda closed her tired eyes as the old movie unfolded against her retinas, flickering softly at first.
She could still remember the scent of his musky coat, the way his hair fell over his soft grey eyes, how perfectly his hand fit into hers, and how her fingers trembled that night when he slipped the ring onto her.

Her fingers, long and graceful now, slipped down her hips, over rustling black chiffon, sensing tiny black pearls sewn in elaborate patterns.  Absurdly narrow black patent leather creaked against her youthful nylon ankles.
Linda licked her lips nervously, tasting tint of fresh lipstick that flipped her stomach as the familiar nausea of morning sickness lingered in the back of her throat.

Her eyes fluttered open, seeing it all as if it were yesterday.
Emmett stood there, his grey eyes afire, angrily arguing in silent grey words as she handed the bejeweled engagement ring back.  He didn’t understand.
Linda’s mouth opened mutely in response, truly at a loss for words.  Her eyes caught movement offshore, of the expensively polished black sedan watching through the canopy of young colorless wisteria clusters.

Emmett didn’t understand.
Tears swelled under her false lashes as she squeezed her eyes shut tightly.  How she wished they would just go away.
Damn his family.

Emmett pried open her hand and pressed the grey gold against her perspiring palm, stepping in close to her.  The words were lost in silence, his breath was comfortably cool against her cheek.  He wasn’t giving up.

As if rehearsed a thousand times, Linda watched the wink of diamonds sail through the pitch black sky, a falling star slowly tumbling in an agonizing slowness, silently rippling the dark water as it sank.
She looked at her trembling open palm.
It was empty, save for the imprint left behind.

Grey blur of coat lapels slipped by her in the darkness, haze of grey tears.  The silent spray of grey water spotted her dress, soaking through her nylons.
Linda’s breath hung grey against the charcoal of night with her silent cry.  The churning water calmed to a black onyx glaze that swallowed her vision.
Numbness steeped into her bones.

Into his bones..
such beckoning blackness…
the calmness of a murky Heaven..
I’m coming, my love..

Linda’s heavy eyes focused into a pair of beautiful grey irises plumed with dark lashes and crow’s feet.  Her daughter look concerned.  “Are you okay?”
Wordlessly, Linda nodded, wincing from the stiff neck.  It seemed she had been lost here longer than she thought.  The moon had shifted in her view, and the frogs had tucked themselves under safety of lily pad dreams.

“Shhh,” Christina murmured in confused wonder, wiping the single moonlit tear that trickled down her mother’s deeply etched cheek.  “Let’s go home, Dad’s been waiting up.”  She helped her aging mother to a standing position and they started down the beaten path that they both knew by heart, brushing the blossoms aside.

Linda stopped for a moment, and shuffled herself around to face the moonlit waters as Christina supported her arm.  Wordlessly she scanned what she could see in the darkness and began crying quietly with a watered-down smile. Christina hugged her gently.

Linda patted her daughter’s plump wrist, her voice trailing off.  “Someday..”