When you first think of this word, it is with a slippery slope in mind.
I’ve been on a few of those in my time.
And while we’re on the subject, those inclines measured in degrees are very important if you want a train to get up and down the side of a mountain.
For the train, that’s an incline plane, the point where traction alone won’t get the iron horse up the hill.
Did I say ‘Iron Horse’? Sorry, regressed there, back to the mid-1800s in the American West for a moment.
It’s not that important when it comes to trucks and cars, and less so if you like four-wheel driving; getting up near-vertical mountainsides often present a welcome challenge to the true enthusiast
But for the rest of us, not so much if you find yourself sliding in reverse uncontrollably into the bay. I’m sure it’s happened more than once.
Then…
Are you inclined to go?
A very different sort of incline, ie to be disposed towards an attitude or desire.
An inclination, maybe, not to go four-wheel driving?
There is another, probably more obscure use of the word incline, and that relates to an elevated geological formation. Not the sort of reference that crops up in everyday conversation at the coffee shop.
But, you never know. Try it next time you have coffee and see what happens.
Hang about. Didn’t I read somewhere you need to plan your novel, create an outline setting the plot points, and flesh out the characters?
I’m sure it didn’t say, sit down and start writing!
Time to find a writing pad, and put my thinking cap on.
I make a list, what’s the story going to be about? Who’s going to be in it, at least at the start?
Like a newspaper story, I need a who, what, when, where, and how.
Right now.
I pick up the pen.
Character number one:
Computer nerd, ok, that’s a little close to the bone, a computer manager who is trying to be everything at once, and failing. Still me, but with a twist. Now, add a little mystery to him, and give him a secret, one that will only be revealed after a specific set of circumstance. Yes, I like that.
We’ll call him Bill, ex-regular army, a badly injured and repatriated soldier who was sent to fight a war in Vietnam, the result of which had made him, at times, unfit to live with.
He had a wife, which brings us to,
Character number two:
Ellen, Bill’s ex-wife, an army brat and a General’s daughter, and the result of one of those romances that met disapproval for so many reasons. It worked until Bill came back from the war, and from there it slowly disintegrated. There are two daughters, both by the time the novel begins, old enough to understand the ramifications of a divorce.
Character number three:
The man who is Bill’s immediate superior, the Services Department manager, a rather officious man who blindly follows orders, a man who takes pleasure in making others feel small and insignificant, and worst of all, takes the credit where none is due.
Oops, too much, that is my old boss. He’ll know immediately I’m parodying him. Tone it down, just a little, but more or less that’s him. Last name Benton. He will play a small role in the story.
Character number four:
Jennifer, the IT Department’s assistant manager, a woman who arrives in a shroud of mystery, and then, in time, to provide Bill with a shoulder to cry on when he and Ellen finally split, and perhaps something else later on.
More on her later as the story unfolds.
So far so good.
What’s the plot?
Huge corporation plotting to take over the world using computers? No, that’s been done to death.
Huge corporation, OK, let’s stop blaming the corporate world for everything wrong in the world. Corporations are not bad people, people are the bad people. That’s a rip off cliché, from guns don’t kill people, people kill people! There will be guns, and there will be dead people.
There will be people hiding behind a huge corporation, using a part of their computer network to move billions of illegally gained money around. That’s better.
Now, having got that, our ‘hero’ has to ‘discover’ this network, and the people behind it.
All we need now is to set the ball rolling, a single event that ‘throws a cat among the pigeons’.
Yes, Bill is on holidays, a welcome relief from the problems of work. He dreams of what he’s going to do for the next two weeks. The phone rings. Benton calling, the world is coming to an end, the network is down. He’s needed. A few terse words, but he relents.
There’s something to be said for a story that starts like a James Bond movie, throwing you straight in the deep end, a perfect way of getting to know the main character, David, or is that Alistair?
A retired spy, well, not so much a spy as a retired errand boy, David’s rather wry description of his talents, and a woman that most men would give their left arm for, not exactly the ideal couple, but there is a spark in a meeting that may or may not have been a setup.
But as the story progressed, the question I kept asking myself was why he’d bother.
And, page after unrelenting page, you find out.
Susan is exactly the sort of woman to pique his interest. Then, inexplicably, she disappears. That might have been the end of it, but Prendergast, that shadowy enigma, David’s ex-boss who loves playing games with real people, gives him an ultimatum: find her or come back to work.
Nothing like an offer that’s a double-edged sword!
A dragon for a mother, a sister he didn’t know about, Susan’s BFF who is not what she seems or a friend indeed, and Susan’s father, who, up till David meets her, couldn’t be less interested, his nemesis proves to be the impossible dream, and he’s always just that one step behind.
When the rollercoaster finally came to a halt, and I could start breathing again, it was an ending that was completely unexpected.
China is renowned for its exquisite silk, so naturally, a visit to the Silk Spinning Factory is part of today’s tour.
After that, we will be heading downtown to an unspecified location where we’re getting a boat ride, walk through a typical Chinese shopping experience, and coffee at a coffee shop that is doubling as the meeting place, after we soak up the local atmosphere.
The problem with that is that if the entire collective trip a deal tourists take this route then the savvy shopkeepers will jack up their prices tenfold because we’re tourists with money. It’ll be interesting to see how expensive everything is.
So…
Before we reach the silk factory, we are told that Suzhou is the main silk area of China, and we will be visiting a nearly 100 years old, Suzhou No 1 Silk Mill, established in 1926. Suzhou has a 4,700-year history of making silk products. It is located at No. 94, Nanmen Road, Suzhou, Jiangsu, China.
Then we arrive at the Silk Factory, another government-owned establishment with a castiron guarantee of quality and satisfaction.
The look and feel of the doona cover certainly backs up that claim
And the colors and variety is amazing (as is the cost of those exquisite sets)
We get to see the silk cocoon stretched beyond imagination, and see how the silk thread is extracted, then off to the showroom for the sales pitch.
It isn’t a hard sell, and the sheets, doonas, pillows, and pillowcases, are reasonably priced, and come with their own suitcase (for free) so you can take them with you, or free shipping, by slow boat, if you prefer not to take the goods with you.
We opt for the second choice, as there’s no room left in our baggage after packing the Chinese Medicine.
Known only to a few, there is a legend that a ship named the ‘Flying Dutchman’ left Nazi Germany in the last weeks of the war and set sail for America, escorted by U-boats, under a different name. Aboard was a trove of treasure and gold worth a ‘king’s ransom’.
It was said that it had been sent to a group of American Nazis to create the Fourth Reich at an appropriate time. Over the years since many expeditions off the coast had searched, but found no trace of the vessel or the treasure.
In other words, it was just a legend created to boost tourism.
…
Fast forward to 2024. Our intrepid private detective, Harry Walthenson, overhears a conversation at Grand Central Station. It was the oddness of the message that caught his attention. An investigation turned up nothing out of the ordinary, and he thinks no more about it.
Then Harry is kidnapped, interrogated, and asked questions over and over about a date and a place, why he went there, and when he could not give satisfactory answers, he was beaten half to death and left for dead on a rubbish heap. He was lucky that it was a living space for homeless men; otherwise, he would have died.
In the aftermath, he once again gives it no more thought.
…
After resolving his first case successfully, there’s no rest. Harry’s angry mother comes to his office and demands that he find out where his father has gone. She believes he has run off with a mistress, not for the first time.
Perhaps it was not the wisest decision she has made, because Harry promises to investigate, and adds that she might not like what he finds.
He soon discovered he does not like what he finds, that his father’s friends, a cabal formed at University, have two who are his mother’s current lovers, and another, a criminal blackmailing his father.
Felicity, now his partner, working on a different case, and trying to get answers, uncovers a crime family involved in guarding a disused warehouse on the docks, where she believes Harry had been taken for interrogation, and subsequently dumped nearby to die.
Why are they up to? What is so important that the empty warehouse needs guarding? Who is employing them?
Harry, following up on the death of the blackmailer, traces his death back to an enforcer employed by his grandfather. His mother’s grandfather was a pre-war industrialist who made his fortune in war munitions and shipbuilding.
He was also a member of the American Nazi party.
When Harry also discovers a logbook belonging to a so-called wartime Liberty ship the “Paul Revere” in brackets ‘Freiheitskämpfer’, hidden by his father, and written in a code that is not readily identifiable.
It is no longer a matter of a father who has run off with his mistress; it is a very frightened man in fear of his life, running from a group who will stop at nothing to get the logbook back. And when Harry discovers a family connection to the group, it becomes a race against time to decode the log and find his father before his grandfather does.
…
Coming soon: Harry Walthenson’s new adventure – A case of finding the ‘Flying Dutchman’
Beyond the Grind: Why Writing 1,000 Words a Day is Your Greatest Asset
In the modern world of “hustle culture,” we are constantly bombarded with advice on how to optimise every second of our lives. It’s easy to get cynical about productivity. We’re told to wake up at 4:00 a.m., take ice baths, and track our output down to the millisecond.
Let’s be clear: productivity isn’t everything. Your worth as a human being is not tied to your daily tax output or the number of rows in your spreadsheet. If you neglect your health, your relationships, and your peace of mind in the name of output, you’ve missed the point of living.
However, productivity is important. It is the bridge between having a dream and holding a finished product. For writers, designers, and creators, the gap between “I have an idea” and “I have a career” is filled with consistent, disciplined work.
If you want to sharpen your craft, there is one rule of thumb that stands above the rest: write a thousand words a day.
The Arithmetic of Ambition
A thousand words might sound like a lot, especially when you’re staring at a blinking cursor on a blank screen. But let’s look at the numbers. If you write 1,000 words a day, you are producing 7,000 words a week. By the end of a month, you have a 30,000-word manuscript. In three months, you have a book.
The math is undeniable, but it isn’t just about the volume. It’s about the compounding interest of skill.
Writing is a Muscle
There is a common misconception that writing is a magical act of inspiration that strikes only when the muses are aligned. Professional writers know better: writing is a muscle. The more you use it, the stronger it gets.
When you commit to writing 1,000 words daily, you aren’t just filling pages; you are refining your voice. You learn how to cut the fluff. You learn how to structure an argument, how to build suspense, and how to transition between thoughts.
The more you write, the better you get. But there is a secondary benefit that is arguably even more practical: the more you write, the more you have to publish.
The “Publishing Paradox”
Many aspiring writers spend years—or even decades—polishing the same fifty pages. They are terrified of hitting “publish” because they feel their work isn’t “perfect” yet.
Here is the secret: perfection is the enemy of progress. If you are writing 1,000 words a day, you stop obsessing over every single syllable because you have another 1,000 words to write tomorrow. You become comfortable with the idea of a “first draft.” By creating a high volume of work, you give yourself the freedom to experiment. You’ll find that your best ideas often come from the quantity, not the agonising deliberation of a single sentence.
Furthermore, having a backlog of content gives you the leverage to build an audience. In the digital age, visibility is currency. If you have nothing to publish, you have no presence. If you write 1,000 words a day, you have a constant stream of content to share, iterate on, and refine.
Is it Daunting? Maybe.
It is perfectly natural to feel intimidated by the idea of writing a thousand words every single day. Some days, your brain will feel like a dry well. Other days, life will get in the way.
But here is the truth that sets you free: anyone can write a thousand words a day.
It doesn’t have to be a masterpiece. It doesn’t have to be published in The New York Times. Sometimes, those 1,000 words will be trash. Sometimes, they will be the best things you’ve ever written. The magic isn’t in the quality of the words you write today; it’s in the habit of showing up.
How to Start
If you want to make this a reality, stop aiming for “greatness” and start aiming for “completion.”
Set a timer: Give yourself an hour. If you don’t hit 1,000, don’t sweat it—just keep going tomorrow.
Eliminate distractions: Close your email, put your phone in another room, and silence your notifications.
Embrace the “Bad” Draft: Give yourself permission to write poorly. You can’t edit a blank page, but you can always fix a bad paragraph.
Productivity is a tool, not a lifestyle. Use it to build the life you want, one thousand words at a time. Your future self will thank you for the progress you made today.
50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.
They all start with –
A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:
And, the story:
Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply fly away?
Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, I came to the airport to see the plane leave. Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.
But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision. She needed the opportunity to spread her wings. It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.
She was in a rut. Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level that she, the youngest of the group, would get the position.
It was something that had been weighing her down for the last three months, and if she noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper. I knew she had one; no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.
And then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere. Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication. It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact that she had to entertain more, and frankly, I felt like an embarrassment to her.
So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock. We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.
It was then that she said she had quit her job and found a new one. Starting the following Monday.
Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it was something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.
I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.
What surprised her was my reaction. None.
I simply asked who, where, and when.
A world-class newspaper in New York, and she had to be there in a week.
A week.
It was all the time I had left with her.
I remember just shrugging and asking if the planned weekend away was off.
She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.
Is that all you want to know?
I did, yes, but we had lost the intimacy we used to have, where she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker, but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.
There’s not much to ask, I said. You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place, and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.
Her immediate superior was instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position, he had not taken advantage of the situation like some might. And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.
One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.
So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.
Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology. It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you. I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.
Yes, our relationship had a use-by date, and it was in the next few days.
I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me; you can make cabinets anywhere.
I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job. It was everything around her and going with her that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.
Then the only question left was, what do we do now?
Go shopping for suitcases. Bags to pack, and places to go.
Getting on the roller coaster is easy. At the beginning, it’s a slow, easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top. It’s much like some relationships; they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, followed by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.
What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.
Our roller coaster had just come out of the final turn, and we were braking so that it would stop at the station.
There was no question of going with her to New York. Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back. After a few months in the new job, the last thing she’d want was a reminder of what she left behind. New friends, new life.
We packed her bags, threw out everything she didn’t want, a free trip to the op shop with stuff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.
Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming; that moment, the taxi arrived to take her away forever. I remember standing there, watching the taxi go. It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.
So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.
Already that morning, there had been 6 different types of planes departing, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.
People coming, people going.
Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just to see what the attraction was. Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.
As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.
The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.
Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in.
…
It didn’t take much effort to come to the only viable explanation of why a buried operation had been brought back to life.
Colonel Bamfield.
And it didn’t take much more effort to realise that operation had been one of his, not that any of us knew that at the time, but for whatever reason, it had gone badly and now he was looking for answers.
Answers to what though?
It was a simple extraction; two operatives had their cover blown and were in hiding. A seven-man team in two choppers, get in, collect them, and get out. Seven men were overkill, but they were important operatives with vital intelligence.
I was a last minute addition to the team, replacing one of the sergeants who had been injured in an accident. It was a tight-knit team and I was not made to feel welcome. It was the usual fate of outsiders and it didn’t bother me.
It was their leader that did. Lieutenant Treen. But that came later, all it was, at first, was a sense of unease with his informal manner of command, and somewhat edgy disposition.
When I landed at the airfield, I was met by the other Sergeant, Mason, and taken to the briefing, which had been delayed until my arrival. Treen was there, pacing up and down like a caged tiger. It was apparent there were still some details still being worked on. Being so close to wheels up, I was not surprised at the tension among the group.
A Captain, a man named Worsefell, conducted the briefing, and it was patchy. Not the worst I’d been to, but it appeared the situation on the ground had changed considerably in the last 12 hours, necessitating a change in plans.
The operative had managed to get cover in an old abandoned building. That was fine until a group of enemy soldiers arrived and set up camp in the field not 100 yards from their position. Now, it was not possible to leave without being seen, day or night.
We now had to either distract or remove the enemy soldiers, an enemy we had no numbers or how heavily armed they were because our source on the ground had gone quiet. To me, it was possible the source had been captured, and if that was the case, it was also possible the enemy knew we were coming. But according to the Captain, this particular source had gone quiet before, in similar circumstances, so my suggestion was ignored.
Instead, the consensus was to go in and make an assessment on the ground. It meant we had to land further away, and have a long journey by foot with all the problems that might involve, and then return. That was the plan. The Captain had left it in Treen’s hands.
And Treen was not one to back away from a fight, not even when it was clear to everyone in that room, with or without the necessary intelligence, that the odds were stacked against success.
I looked at Lallo who was waiting for an answer. “I guess the brass didn’t know what to do with me, sir.”
My use of the word sir was noted.
“Be that as it may, I have a few questions about that operation.”
“I’m afraid it’s classified, and I’m under oath not to speak about it.”
Lallo took out a piece of folded paper from the inside pocket of his uniform jacket unfolded it and passed it to me.
It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you?
John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.
So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?
That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.
What should have been solace after disappointment turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.
He suddenly realises his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.
The story paints the characters, cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times, taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice, where, in those back streets, I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.
All in all, a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.
After the three women left, I stretched out in one of the chairs and closed my eyes.
Cecelia had disappeared into one of the bedrooms, I suspect the one with the biggest bed and its own private bathroom, and I tried not to think about her. I tried not to think about Juliet either.
I heard Cecelia flop into the other chair opposite me a few minutes later. “They’re all lying in one way or another.”
I opened my eyes, hoping she hadn’t changed into something more ‘comfortable’, like in the movies.
“Welcome to the real world. I’m glad you played along. It was a bit of a limb we’re out on at the moment, and I’m sure Alfie, after bursting into the flat will be having kittens.”
“Can we trust any of those three?”
“You’d think the countess being a countess would be trustworthy.”
“But…”
“She does come from a class of people who are a law unto themselves. I don’t see her as a master criminal though, but she’s not telling the whole truth, just the parts she thinks we need to hear. It’s the same with everyone in this business. They try to anticipate our requirements.”
“I like the idea of being a bit player.”
“Never tell anyone who you really are. I find it helps to allay their fears and stops them from thinking you can save them from anything. First lesson I learned; I couldn’t save everyone.”
“Noted.”
“So, what do you think after hearing everything.”
“Anthony got some of it right, but his suppositions didn’t meet the facts on the ground.”
“Which is always the case. Sometimes a lot worse for us when we get there. We’re lucky this time we have a familiar face, Juliet. It buys us some credibility.”
“You think it’s the old woman or Alessandro trying to kill them, or someone else, or was that attack staged…”
It was a thought I had in passing too, as real as it appeared. If I thought too much about it, the fact was, just before the shooting started, we were both sitting ducks and he could have shot both of us dead.
A point to be noted and filed for later reference.
“Assuming it wasn’t, we have to get them over to Italy.”
“How?”
“How Larry got there. A small plane flying under the radar. If Rodby put you to work with me for a reason, it was probably to teach you all my tricks of the trade. You accumulate a lot of them as you progress, and don’t get killed. Moving secretly from place to place is a useful tool and you gather assets over time. I know a guy who knows a guy, and tomorrow, with the three women, you will go find him and take yourselves off to Italy. You will have two envelopes, the first the name of the pilot. The second, is an address of a safe house near Sorrento. Once they are safe, you will take up surveillance on the Sorrento Chateau, and the movements of the matriarch. After I’ve dealt with Rodby, I’ll be over to talk to her.”
“Don’t you think that’s dangerous, I mean, Rodby will be very angry.”
“Do you want to go see him?”
“No.”
“Then let me worry about him.”
“You sure he won’t lock you up and throw away the key?
I don’t believe we live many lives and are reincarnated over and over.
But…
I have had this dream a few times now and it is, to say the least, disconcerting.
I’m in a room, it looks to be a one-room log cabin, and in the middle of one wall a stove and just down from it, along another side, a bed. It’s cozy, so I suspect it might be cold outside.
The wood stove is burning and is the source of warmth. There’s a table in the middle of the room, with dishes and mugs. Supper past, cleaning up later.
It’s cold outside, and the wind is whistling through the cracks in the logs that make up the walls. I think it might be snowing outside.
This all sounds very homely, perhaps a dream inspired by inner happiness with my lot in life. I know that around the first time had the dream I was living in a house with a wood stove in the kitchen.
Why then is the woman, as a matter of interest, the woman who is my wife in this dream, not my current wife?
Are you as confused as I am?
Let me add this, I first had this dream the day before I married in this life. Could it be construed that I was foretelling a long and contented life with the woman I was about to marry or was it a memory triggered from a previous life?
I’m sure Freud would have a field day with this one.
OK. Then, writing can’t be a way of life; the important part of writing is living. OK. And lastly, you have to live in such a way that your writing emerges from it.
Wow!
How do you make sense of that?
…
Perhaps somebody else has worked out what this conundrum means.
I’ve been trawling the endless collection of Twitter descriptions provided by my fellow writers, noting that there used to be a restriction of 140 characters.
How do you sum yourself and/or your life in 140 characters, or even 280?
I started out with a few catchphrases, something that would draw followers. I’m thinking the word ‘aspiring’ will be my catchphrase. But how will my writing encapsulate that? It needs a little qualification or substance.
I’m aspiring to be a writer, or is that author? Is there a difference? Is there a guide to what I can call myself?
My life, quite simply put, but in more than 140 characters, is married happily, has two wonderful children, three amazing grandchildren, and a wealth of experience acquired over the years in parenting and surviving in a world that isn’t easy to live in.
To be honest, I don’t think anyone would be interested in any story based on those precepts. Actually, that sounds rather boring, doesn’t it?
Maybe it would be better if I were a retired policeman, or a retired lawyer, or a retired sheriff, or a retired private investigator, or a retired doctor, someone who had an occupation that was a rich mine of information from which to draw upon.
Retired computer programmers, supermarket shelf stackers, night cleaners, accounts clerks and general dogsbodies don’t quite cut the mustard. Should we try to embellish our personal history to make it more appealing?
It’s much the same as writing about daily life. No one wants to read about it; people want to be taken out of the humdrum of normalcy and be taken into a world where they can become the character in the book.
And there you have it, in a nutshell, why I write.
I want to escape the mundanity of everyday life and become something, someone else, and, with a little luck, you, the reader, will come along for the roller coaster ride with me.
Or come out of retirement, join a secret intelligence agency and go and save the world.
Then write about it.
Then I’ll be living in such a way that my writing will emerge from it.
Yet…
Death and mayhem sound so much better in my head than in reality.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 