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In a word: Incline

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.

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Writing about writing a book – Day 2

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.

Pen in hand I begin to write.

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 177

Day 177 – Things to avoid

…

Write Like a Pro: 3 Common Writing Pitfalls to Avoid

Great writing is like a good conversation: it should be clear, engaging, and easy to follow. However, even experienced writers sometimes fall into habits that obstruct the reader’s experience. To help you sharpen your prose, let’s look at three common mistakes—run-on sentences, overlong anecdotes, and unnecessary Latin phrases—and how to fix them.

1. Ditch the Run-On Sentences

A run-on sentence happens when two or more independent clauses are joined improperly, often without the necessary punctuation or conjunctions. They force the reader to hold their breath until they hit a period, which kills the rhythm of your content.

What NOT to write:

“I went to the store to buy groceries for the party but they were closed so I had to go to the neighbor’s house to ask for some sugar and then I realized I forgot my wallet at home anyway.”

How to do it properly:

  • Use a period: “I went to the store to buy groceries for the party, but it was closed. I had to go to my neighbour’s house for sugar, only to realise I’d left my wallet at home.”
  • Use a semicolon: “The store was closed; consequently, I had to ask my neighbour for sugar.”

2. Stop Cramming Stories into One Sentence

New writers often try to pack an entire narrative arc—the setting, the conflict, and the resolution—into a single, breathless sentence. If a story requires more than one sentence to explain, give it the space it needs. Breaking your thoughts into multiple sentences allows the reader to digest the information one piece at a time.

What NOT to write:

“When I was hiking in the Rockies last summer, I saw a massive grizzly bear standing just a few yards away from the trail, and my heart started racing as I slowly backed away, hoping it wouldn’t notice me while I reached for my bear spray, and eventually, I made it back to safety without a scratch.”

How to do it properly:

“While hiking in the Rockies last summer, I saw a massive grizzly bear standing just yards from the trail. My heart raced as I slowly backed away, praying it wouldn’t notice me reaching for my bear spray. Thankfully, I made it back to the trailhead without a scratch.”

3. Avoid Obscure Latin Phrases

Using Latin phrases like ad hoc, post hoc, or quid pro quo can make your writing feel pretentious or exclusionary. Unless you are writing for an academic, legal or medical journal, your goal should be clarity. If a simple English word does the job, use it.

What NOT to write:

“We formed the committee ad hoc to handle the budget crisis, but their efforts were ipso facto doomed from the start.”

How to do it properly:

“We formed a temporary committee to handle the budget crisis, but their efforts were inherently doomed from the start.”

Note: If you feel a specific Latin phrase is essential, ensure it is widely understood (like “et cetera” or “per se”), but even then, using plain English is almost always the more professional choice.

The Takeaway

Good writing isn’t about how many complex structures you can cram into a paragraph; it’s about how much value you can provide to the reader with the least amount of friction.

Remember:

  1. Break up your clauses to avoid run-ons.
  2. Give your stories the breathing room of multiple sentences.
  3. Choose common English over dusty Latin.

Your readers will thank you for it!

…

An excerpt from “Betrayal” – a work in progress

It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t.  It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…

She sighed, came away from the window and looked around the room.  It was quite large and expensively furnished.  It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.

Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917.  At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.

There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.

She was here to meet with Vladimir.

She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.

All he knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, whose life both at work and at home was boring.  Not that she had blurted that out the first time they met, or even the second.

That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.

It was a celebration honouring one of the Embassy officials’ service in Moscow, soon to be returning home after 10 years.  She had been there one and still hadn’t met all the staff.

They had talked; Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and, of course, what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.

It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords if this were a fencing match.

They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity.  She knew the signs of a man interested in her, and Vladimir was.

The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined.  After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.

Then, it went quiet for a month.  There was a party at the American embassy, and along with several other staff members, she was invited.  She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.

A pleasant afternoon ensued.

And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.

By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends.  She had broached the subject of being involved in a platonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy.  Normally, for a member of her rank, it would not be allowed, but in this instance, it was.

She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something useful.  In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open and file a report each time she met him.

After that discussion, she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit.  She also formed the impression that he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.

It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine.  She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.

A Russian friend.  That’s what she would call him.

And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue.  It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.

Even so, she had made him promise that he would remain on his best behaviour.  It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.

So, it began.

It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one she had expected to be reprimanded.

She wasn’t.

It wasn’t until six weeks had passed that he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country.  It would involve staying in a hotel, as always, in separate rooms.  When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution: keep her wits about her.

Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report.  After all, her reports on the places, the people, and the conversations she overheard were no doubt entertaining reading for some.

But on this visit, the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report.  She had realised at some point before the weekend away that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.

It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen.  Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, just happened.

And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.

She took off her coat and placed it carefully on the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room.  She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.

Then, after a minute or two, she went to the minibar and took out the bottle of champagne left there for them, a treat Vladimir arranged for each encounter.

There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit.  She picked up the apple and thought about how Eve must have felt in the Garden of Eden, and the temptation.

Later perhaps, after…

She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.

A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival.  It was, if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality.  A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.

The doorbell rang, right on the appointed time.

She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.

A smile on her face, she opened the door.

It was not Vladimir.  It was her worst nightmare.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2026

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 21

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination in what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

 

Chiara knew the moment she told Martina that one of the Germans was dead, she would be in trouble.  Not only from the resistance but from the British or whoever they were, up at the castle.

The man’s name was Eric Carmichael, and he was a nice man, more of a boy really, having not suffered the full effects of a front line.  He wanted to, but the Gods, as he called them, were against it.

Now he was dead.

He had come to the farm, told she was not there and had left again.  The pity of it, on any other occasion, nothing would have happened.  Nobody went out at night, so no one knew of their association.

Of course, if he did tell her anything, which he hadn’t so far, she would pass it on to Martina.  And, perhaps the only annoying thing about him was that he kept asking about the resistance as if it was still operational.  It was one of the reasons who Martina kept her at arm’s length, so she had nothing useful to tell them if they took her in for questioning.

Now it was a matter of seeing if he had told anyone about this affair, and if he did, she would not be safe at the farm.  It was why she was in hiding, waiting, and watching to see if anyone came.

Along with Carlo, and the new man, Atherton.

Not far from where the soldier’s body lay in the ditch, one that no one had yet found.

Until now.

A car was coming along the road quite fast, heading towards her farm.  Atherton recognised it as one of the staff cars from the castle, and as it slowed to turn the corner, Atherton could see it contained three men, the driver, and the two men who had followed him down the stream.

Suddenly the car skidded to a stop.  All three got out and went over to the ditch.  The driver had seen the bicycle.

 

It was an interesting conversation.

“The fool looks like he run off the side of the road and into a tree, fell off and hit his dead on the rocks.”

It was the man who had set me free.  I’d recognise him anywhere.

“Or maybe some ‘innocent bystander’ shoved a wrench in the wheel and he went over the handlebars.”

The big man turned to him.  “You have a story that implicates every member of the enemy population, don’t you?  Where’s the wrench?”

“They could have tossed it away or thrown it into the bushes.”

“The kid’s an idiot.  He was out for some fun and had his mind everywhere but on the job.  If she’s that tempting, maybe I’ll go and have a look in myself.”

The driver took a closer look, then suddenly bolted for the bushes and threw up.  I’d expected more seasoned soldiers in the group of paratroopers, but maybe they were late recruits with only half the training, and barely out of school.  He didn’t look all that old.  Neither had the lad in the ditch.

The tall guy yelled out, “when you finish puking, get over here and help us get him into the car.  Then we’ll meander down to this farm.”

 

Carlo knew a quicker way across the country to their farm.  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to work out what he was intending to do.

Three fewer Germans, three fewer problems.

I followed, trying to keep up.

“You got weapons hidden away?”

“Several rifles and a handgun.”

“It’ll do.  When we get there, you say out of sight.  Me and the new laddie here will take care of them.”

A look in my direction told me I’d just been recruited into the killing force.  Exactly what I’d been hoping to avoid.  I guess it was time to make a stand.

A few minutes later we were in the large shed out the rear of the farmhouse, retrieved the rifles, of which one was a sniper rifle, a rather interesting trophy, and not the sort of gun any soldier would leave lying around.

I was tempted to ask where she got but decided against it.  I had an awful feeling the previous owner had met a gruesome if not a sticky end.  Chiara was not just a pretty face.

“You know what to do with this thing?” Carlo said, holding it out in my direction.

“Vaguely, but I think I can manage.”

With it was a carton of shells, rather long and ugly and very deadly, even at long range.  But this time, we were not that far from the target area so wind and external conditions would not be a factor.

Also, I was hoping the sight had been calibrated.

After getting a feel for the weapon I took up a position on top of some hay bales and could see through a large enough crack when I put the barrel, and stretching out, found a comfortable position, and aimed for the back door.

It was like putting out my hand and touching it.  This was going to kick like a mule on the recoil, but I would only have time to worry about reloading for the next target.  Then I realised the driver might be a problem, especially when the shooting started, so I swivelled around to the back end of the house where a vehicle might come, and, saw the blue, altered the sight, and then saw the car approaching slowly.

I was hoping it would remain in sight, so if anything happened, I would be able to pick him off.  It would be all that much harder if he managed to try driving away.

I tracked the car to the point where it stopped, just pat the corner, with only the back half displayed in my sight.

Damn.

In the distance, we heard two car doors slam shut.

The driver was staying put.

Double damn.

A minute later we could hear pounding on the front door, then nothing.  My guess, they kicked in the front door.  There was no one at home, Chiara’s parents were away because they had no crops in the ground.  Their problem was water, and the river was running low this year.  Aside from the fact they were not going to feed the enemy soldiers who would simply take everything and give them nothing in return.

I heard rather than saw Carlo stiffen and resight the back door.  His shots would be far more difficult than mine.

The tall man came out the back door, stood on the ground not far from the door, his head filling my scope.

“Now,” Carlo said softly.

A pull of the trigger and the man’s head exploded, at just the same time as the other man came out.  A reload and another shot.  I missed the head, winged him, and Carlo finished him off.  Once shot at an impossible range.

Another reload, and swivel towards the car, now reversing, and making it very hard to see his face or body to get a clear shot.  Back, around and driving off, in a panic.  He’d heard the two shots.

“The fuel,” Carlo said, “shoot the fuel.”

I lined up where I thought the fuel tank was and squeezed the trigger.

Almost instantaneously the car exploded in a ball of fire.  Just under my line of sight, Carlo was running.  If the driver escaped…

I put the scope on Carli and then to the side.  I saw him raise his gun and fire twice.  The drive must have miraculously thrown clear of the car, only to find himself in Carlo’s sights.

Chiara had appeared behind me.  “We have to go,” she said.

I picked up the gun and took it with me.  It could come in handy later on.

Carlo was already heading back to the shortcut through the woods and we met him on the path about twenty yards along.

“That’s going to stir up a hornet’s nest,” he said.

More than that, I thought.  Now Johannsson knew he had a real problem.  There would be a price to pay for this exercise, and the villagers were the ones who would be paying it.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

“The Things we do for Love”, the story behind the story

This story has been ongoing since I was seventeen, and just to let you know, I’m 72 this year.

Yes, it’s taken a long time to get it done.

Why, you might ask.

Well, I never gave it much interest because I started writing it after a small incident when I was 17, and working as a book packer for a book distributor in Melbourne

At the end of my first year, at Christmas, the employer had a Christmas party, and that year, it was at a venue in St Kilda.

I wasn’t going to go because at that age, I was an ordinary boy who was very introverted and basically scared of his own shadow and terrified by girls.

Back then, I would cross the street to avoid them

Also, other members of the staff in the shipping department were rough and ready types who were not backwards in telling me what happened, and being naive, perhaps they knew I’d be either shocked or intrigued.

I was both adamant I wasn’t coming and then got roped in on a dare.

Damn!

So, back then, in the early 70s, people looked the other way when it came to drinking, and of course, Dutch courage always takes away the concerns, especially when normally you wouldn’t do half the stuff you wouldn’t in a million years

I made it to the end, not as drunk and stupid as I thought I might be, and St Kilda being a salacious place if you knew where to look, my new friends decided to give me a surprise.

It didn’t take long to realise these men were ‘men about town’ as they kept saying, and we went on an odyssey.  Yes, those backstreet brothels where one could, I was told, have anything they could imagine.

Let me tell you, large quantities of alcohol and imagination were a very bad mix.

So, the odyssey in ‘The things we do’ was based on that, and then the encounter with Diana. Well, let’s just say I learned a great deal about girls that night.

Firstly, not all girls are nasty and spiteful, which seemed to be the case whenever I met one. There was a way to approach, greet, talk to, and behave.

It was also true that I could have had anything I wanted, but I decided what was in my imagination could stay there.  She was amused that all I wanted was to talk, but it was my money, and I could spend it how I liked.

And like any 17-year-old naive fool, I fell in love with her and had all these foolish notions.  Months later, I went back, but she had moved on, to where no one was saying or knew.

Needless to say, I was heartbroken and had to get over that first loss, which, like any 17-year-old, was like the end of the world.

But it was the best hour I’d ever spent in my life and would remain so until I met the woman I have been married to for the last 48 years.

As Henry, he was in part based on a rebel, the son of rich parents who despised them and their wealth, and he used to regale anyone who would listen about how they had messed up his life

If only I’d come from such a background!

And yes, I was only a run away from climbing up the stairs to get on board a ship, acting as a purser.

I worked for a shipping company and they gave their junior staff members an opportunity to spend a year at sea working as a purser on a cargo ship that sailed between Melbourne, Sydney and Hobart in Australia.

One of the other junior staff members’ turn came, and I would visit him on board when he would tell me stories about life on board, the officers, the crew, and other events. These stories, which sounded incredible to someone so impressionable, were a delight to hear.

Alas, by that time, I had tired of office work and moved on to be a tradesman at the place where my father worked.

It proved to be the right move, as that is where I met my wife.  Diana had been right; love would find me when I least expected it.

…

lovecoverfinal1

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 22

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

 …

I was a fool for thinking that I could help Nadia when the whole time she was playing me.  There didn’t look like any tension between them, and nothing that would convince me that he had any sort of hold over her.

I cursed myself for my own stupidity.

With a shake of the head, I went over to the bar attached to the beachside restaurant and order a cold beer, then another.   The bartender gave me a long measured look as if trying to gauge my age, but I was old enough and had the ID card to prove it.  

It was a curse to look so young for that reason, but I suppose, like more old men, I would eventually curse being old.  At least, that’s what my mother said, along with the warning I should not be so eager to start drinking booze.

At least I didn’t smoke, though that hadn’t always been the case, and, at times, it was hard not to reach for a cigarette in moments of anguish or anger, like now.

I was on my fourth bottle when I heard someone sit on the stool next to mine.  About the same time I recognised the perfume wafting my way.

Nadia.

“So, this is where you’re hiding?”

I looked sideways at her.  My first thought was to tell her exactly what I thought of her.  That passed quickly.  No telling how many of her friends were here, and the thought of facing Vince was not something I wanted to do, any time.

“What do you want?”

“I thought I saw you on the pier?”

“I like to see how the other half live.  What’s your excuse?”  OK, that didn’t come out exactly how I wanted it to.

I could feel her glaring at me.  She knew exactly what I was talking about.  At least she wasn’t going to dodge the issue.

“I do what I have to.  If it means I have to cosy up to a rattlesnake, then I will.”  Delivered barely above a whisper, but spat out with a great deal of venom.  “What happened out there?”

“Rico got busted for having a dead body on his boat.  You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“I didn’t put it there if that’s what you mean.”

“Alex?”

“He hasn’t got the brains for something like that.  Not in plain sight.”

That was an odd thing to say, in plain sight.  Did that mean they were in full view of Rico’s boat the whole time he was not on it?

“Why do you say that?”  I looked sideways at her.  Slightly sunburned on the top of her cheeks.  No makeup, and surprisingly, she looked very different, not as grown-up.

“The yacht was parked three bays down.  Engines were not working again and Alex had to come back and just made it into the dock.  Sent down a couple of divers to check the propellers or something.”

“You see Rico on his boat?”

“Briefly.  He was with a couple of Benderby’s thugs.  They left the boat, and about ten minutes later we left the dock.  Alex said some fishing line had fouled the propeller.”

“What happened then?”

“We went down below to have lunch.  The Captain took it for a run, everything seemed to be working, and we came back.  That’s when I saw you and Rico on the dock and all the police. You in some sort of trouble?”

“No.  The FBI has taken over the investigation, and told Johnson to let us go.”

“I’m sure Johnson is absolutely thrilled the feds took over his ticket to becoming the next Sherriff.”

“Why?  Is he in the Cossatino’s back pocket?”

“You’re asking the wrong person.  This will put a dent in your plan to help me out with Alex.  I can’t pretend to like the bastard for much longer, and I swear if he touches me again, I’ll kill him.”

I guess it was easy, for a minute, to forget that her brother was exactly the same with other women, and, when we’d been at school, girls too frightened to say no.  Perhaps it was the Cossatino blood running through her veins, that it was alright in some cases, and not in others.  “That’s ironic after what Vince has done, and probably still does, don’t you think?”

The bartender stopped and put a half-full glass of straight bourbon in front of her.  A nod and the bill was paid.

She looked at me, picked it up and drunk the contents straight down, then said, “You’re a bastard smidge.  You know I could crush you like the insignificant bug you are, but I’m not going to.  You see, I like you, no matter what you think of me.  Just call me once you’ve got over your bout of smug superiority.”

A smile, or a grimace, I wasn’t sure what it was, she slid off the stool and left.

 …

© Charles Heath 2019-2026

The 2am rant: If only something made sense!

It seems rather fortuitous that we have a holiday at the end of the year.

I mean, who sat around a table however many years ago and decided that holidays like Christmas should be at the end of the year?  And who decided one half of the world could freeze to death on their holidays, and the other half burn?

At the end of a long year at that, you know, 52 weeks, 12 months, 365 days, where even when some of us get a weekend off once in a blue moon, it still seems like we’re working 7 days a week, 52 weeks a year.

So, who decided a week would have seven days, a year would have 12 months, and while we’re at it, who decided to give each month a different name?  And who named names?

Was it Father Time?  As children, we all learn about Father Time, or has political correctness stepped in and we now call ‘Father Time’, ‘person time’.

Anyway…

Who do we blame for this mess? We have to blame someone.  It’s not our fault.  If it were up to me I’d have Christmas in September when there’s more temperate weather in both halves of the world.

And who decided that Christmas should be attached to Winter and not Summer?

It’s like the whole mess was designed by a group of academics majoring in philosophy sitting in a back room and fed Coca-Cola and Pizza until they came up with an answer, which was probably to send it all to a parliamentary committee made up of candidates from Bellevue Asylum.

The same people, by the way, who are responsible for coordinating traffic lights.

And then there’s that other mystery I’ve never quite understood.

If you work for the FBI, your first name suddenly becomes ‘Agent’.  Everyone gets that name change, whether you like it or not.

Which is much the same as how all Russians once called each other ‘comrade’.  Beats the hell, I suppose, out of remembering people’s first names, especially in Russia, where, to us, they’re unpronounceable.

Sorry.

You can tell I haven’t got over last Christmas.

Nor missing out, again, due to the world getting crazier.

Perhaps things will be better next Christmas.

What I learned about writing – A slice of life, or a slice of imagination?

The Feast of the Impossible: Why We Don’t Want a Slice of Life, But a Slice of the Imagination

There is a culinary term often used in creative circles: the “slice of life.” It refers to narratives that capture the ordinary, the mundane, the painfully relatable reality of human existence. It’s the story of the difficult commute, the awkward first date, the slow, inevitable march of rent payments and domestic chores.

And while critics and readers praise these narratives for their mirror-like accuracy, a growing chorus of us—the dreamers, the schemers, the creators—have started to push the plate away.

We are perfectly familiar with reality. We live in it every day. Why, then, should we dedicate our precious leisure time to consuming its reheated leftovers?

We are not interested in a slice of life; what we want is a slice of the imagination.

The Tyranny of the Mundane

The argument against the strict “slice of life” isn’t an argument against authenticity; it’s an argument against limitation.

Reality, for all its occasional beauty, is often characterised by bureaucratic ennui, disappointing physics, and a predictable set of social rules. The slice of life, at its most restrictive, holds us hostage to these limitations. It dictates that things must be believable, that characters must struggle with only the problems we currently possess, and that the scope of human experience must fit within the current legal code and the known laws of thermodynamics.

When we turn to art, literature, or media, we are not looking for confirmation that the world is exactly as depressing and limited as we suspected. We are looking for a lift.

We seek the moment of transcendence—the moment that allows us to step outside the constraints of our five senses and the 24-hour news cycle. The slice of life provides comfort in shared familiarity; the slice of the imagination offers freedom in glorious impossibility.

The True Taste of Imagination

What exactly is this “slice of the imagination”?

It is the narrative that begins not where the road ends, but where the road should have begun if we had been allowed to choose the construction materials ourselves.

It is the hidden history whispered by an exiled queen on a planet visible only through a telescope carved from ice. It is the intricate workings of a clockwork city powered by collective dreams. It is the raw, untamed emotion of a character whose heartbreak causes the actual atmosphere to fracture.

Imagination gives us narratives designed not to confirm the limits of our world, but to test the limits of our humanity under impossible pressures.

Why Imagination Is More Authentic Than Reality

Despite popular misconception, investing in the imaginative is often a deeper, more rigorous exploration of truth than merely documenting the real.

  • It isolates the core idea: If you want to explore the nature of sacrifice, you can write a story about a parent giving up a promotion for their child (a slice of life). Or, you can write about a space traveller forced to stop the flow of time at the exact moment their daughter smiles, knowing they will be trapped alone in that instant forever (a slice of imagination). The latter, while impossible, isolates and intensifies the emotional truth of sacrifice far more effectively.
  • It offers universal empathy: A narrative depicting the specific political struggles of 1980s Eastern Europe might struggle to resonate with a modern teenager in Sydney. However, a story about an oppressed people fighting a magically-enforced totalitarian regime (Fantasy) or resisting a hive-mind alien force (Sci-Fi) speaks directly to the universal human impulse for freedom, regardless of the historical moment.
  • It is the blueprint for the future: Every innovation, every breakthrough, every architectural marvel that defines our modern existence began as a “slice of the imagination.” The aeroplane, the smartphone, the idea of universal healthcare—all were once impossible concepts derided by those content with the current “slice of life.” To celebrate the imagination is to celebrate potential itself.

The Imperative of Invention

To choose imagination is not to choose childish escapism; it is to choose necessary fuel. We need stories built out of invented metal and arcane logic because they train our minds to accept the possibility of a world radically different from the one we inhabit.

The imagination is the muscle we use to solve problems we haven’t encountered yet.

It is the necessary ingredient for those who refuse to accept the status quo—the engineers, the artists, the social reformers, and the writers who believe that if Reality is flawed, the only ethical response is to invent something better.

So, the next time you sit down to read, watch, or create, allow yourself to look past the documentary style and the accurate mirroring of your weekly routine. Demand complexity. Demand strangeness. Demand dragons, ships that sail between dimensions, and philosophical conundrums posed by sentient black holes.

Take the slice of the imagination. It’s a messy, glorious, impossible meal, and it’s the only one that truly nourishes the soul.

What is the most important “impossible” story that changed your perspective on the world? Share your favourite slice of the imagination in the comments below!

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 176

Day 176 – There’s no such thing as writer’s block

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The Myth of the “Blocked” Writer: Why Terry Pratchett Was Right

“I’m just waiting for inspiration to strike.”

If you’ve spent any time around writers, you’ve heard it. It’s usually accompanied by a dramatic sigh, a stare out of a rain-streaked window, and a total lack of actual words on a page. We call it “writer’s block.” We treat it like a divine affliction—a spiritual wall that descends upon us, rendering us incapable of stringing a sentence together.

But what if the wall isn’t real?

The late, great Terry Pratchett once famously quipped: “There’s no such thing as writer’s block. That was invented by people in California who couldn’t write.”

It’s a brutal take, but it’s one that every professional should consider. If we strip away the romanticism of the “tortured artist,” what we’re left with is a simple truth: Writing is a job, not a mood.

The Comfort of the “Block”

Why do we cling to the idea of writer’s block? Because it’s an incredibly comfortable place to hide.

If I tell myself I have “writer’s block,” I am absolved of all responsibility. I’m not lazy; I’m “blocked.” I’m not failing to meet a deadline; I’m “waiting for the muse.” It transforms a technical failure—my inability to organize my thoughts or commit to a draft—into a mystical psychological condition.

The reality is that “writer’s block” is usually one of three things:

  1. Fear: You’re afraid the words won’t be perfect. Perfectionism is a form of procrastination.
  2. Lack of Preparation: If you don’t know what happens next in your story or your article, you haven’t done the heavy lifting of outlining or research.
  3. Fatigue: You’re tired, and your brain is telling you to take a break. That’s not a block; that’s just biology.

Writing as a Blue-Collar Trade

Pratchett wasn’t belittling the difficulty of writing; he was elevating it to a craft. He treated writing like a plumber treats a leaky pipe or a carpenter treats a frame. When a plumber has a pipe to fix, they don’t sit in their van waiting for the “spirit of plumbing” to descend. They pick up a wrench and get to work.

If you sit down to write and the words aren’t coming, don’t call it a “block.” Call it “the hard part.”

The hard part is where you realise your opening paragraph is weak. The hard part is where the middle of the essay sags. The hard part is showing up at 8:00 AM, staring at a blinking cursor, and deciding to write a bad sentence just to get the gears moving.

How to “Unblock” (Without the Drama)

If you want to move past the myth, stop waiting for the lightning bolt. Try these, provided you’re willing to do the work:

  • Write garbage on purpose: Give yourself permission to write the worst first draft in history. You can’t edit a blank page, but you can fix a bad paragraph.
  • Lower the bar: Sometimes the block is just a result of trying to write a masterpiece in the first pass. Aim for “functional” instead of “brilliant.”
  • The 15-Minute Rule: Commit to writing for just 15 minutes. No distractions. Usually, the resistance vanishes once the momentum starts.
  • Break the outline: If you’re stuck, it’s likely because you’re trying to force the story in a direction that doesn’t make sense. Revisit your notes. The problem is usually structural, not spiritual.

The Bottom Line

There are days when writing feels like pulling teeth with a pair of rusty pliers. That’s not a block—that’s just the cost of doing business.

So, next time you feel that familiar resistance, don’t look for an excuse. Don’t blame your environment or your creative juices. Pour a cup of coffee, sit down, and accept that writing is labour. As Pratchett knew better than anyone, the only way to get through the “block” is to write your way out of it, one word at a time.

What do you think? Is “writer’s block” just a fancy excuse, or is it a genuine psychological barrier for you? Let me know in the comments.

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Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Edinburgh

Beyond the Castle: Unearthing Edinburgh’s Hidden Gems (The Road Less Travelled)

Edinburgh. The name alone conjures images of its majestic castle, the Royal Mile’s bustling crowds, and Arthur’s Seat’s iconic silhouette. And while these are undoubtedly must-sees for any visitor, what if you’re craving a taste of the city that goes deeper, a little off the well-trodden tourist path? If you’ve already ticked off the big hitters or simply fancy an Edinburgh experience that feels more personal and unique, then buckle up. We’re venturing down the road less travelled to uncover five fantastic, alternative experiences in this captivating Scottish capital.

1. Dive into the Artistic Depths of the Dean Village

Forget the galleries packed shoulder-to-shoulder. For a truly enchanting artistic escape, head to Dean Village. This picturesque oasis, nestled on the Water of Leith, feels like stepping back in time. Once a thriving milling community, it’s now a bohemian enclave dotted with stunning Victorian architecture, charming bridges, and lush greenery.

Why it’s off the beaten path: While it’s a beautiful spot for a stroll, many visitors overlook it in favour of more central attractions.

What to do: Wander along the river, admire the intricate buildings of Well Court and the former mills, and soak in the tranquil atmosphere. Keep an eye out for resident artists working in their studios (some even have open days!). It’s a photographer’s paradise and a balm for the soul.

2. Uncover Literary Secrets at the Writer’s Museum

Edinburgh is a UNESCO City of Literature, and while the National Library is impressive, the Writers’ Museum offers a more intimate and characterful glimpse into the lives of Scotland’s literary giants. Housed in a beautiful 17th-century tenement building off the Royal Mile, this museum is dedicated to the lives and works of Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott, and Robert Louis Stevenson.

Why it’s off the beaten path: It’s tucked away on a side street, and its smaller scale means it’s often bypassed by those seeking grander institutions.

What to do: Explore the rooms filled with personal belongings, manuscripts, portraits, and furniture belonging to these iconic writers. You can almost feel their creative energy lingering in the air. It’s a deeply personal and inspiring experience for any book lover.

3. Explore the Fascinating Underbelly of the Real Mary King’s Close (Beyond the Main Entrance)

Okay, so “Real Mary King’s Close” is a popular attraction, but hear us out. Instead of booking a standard tour, seek out some of the specialist tours or historical reenactments that occasionally run. These often delve deeper into specific aspects of the Close’s history, focusing on social history, specific residents, or even ghost stories with more dramatic flair.

Why it’s off the beaten path: While the main tours are well-marketed, these niche offerings cater to a more dedicated historical interest and have limited availability.

What to do: Look for advertised events or inquire at local historical societies. These tours can offer a more immersive and less crowded experience, allowing you to truly connect with the stories of those who lived and died beneath the city.

4. Take a Tranquil Escape to the Hermitage of Braid Nature Reserve

Need a break from the urban buzz? The Hermitage of Braid Nature Reserve offers a surprisingly wild and peaceful escape within the city limits. This beautiful wooded glen, also along the Water of Leith, is a haven for wildlife and a perfect spot for a contemplative walk.

Why it’s off the beaten path: It’s further south from the city centre and less advertised than the more accessible parks.

What to do: Follow the winding paths through ancient woodlands, discover charming waterfalls, and enjoy the abundant birdlife. There’s a small, historic Hermitage building and a lovely walled garden to explore. It’s the ideal place to recharge your batteries and reconnect with nature.

5. Indulge Your Sweet Tooth (or Savoury Cravings) at the Stockbridge Market

While Edinburgh has plenty of great restaurants, for a truly local and vibrant food experience, head to the Stockbridge Market. Held every Sunday in the charming Stockbridge neighbourhood, this bustling market is a food lover’s paradise, showcasing a diverse array of local producers, artisanal bakers, and talented street food vendors.

Why it’s off the beaten path: It’s a local’s favourite and attracts a more discerning crowd than the typical tourist markets.

What to do: Sample delicious Scottish produce, from artisan cheeses and freshly baked bread to gourmet baked goods and international street food. Grab a coffee, enjoy the lively atmosphere, and perhaps pick up some unique souvenirs. It’s a fantastic way to experience the city’s culinary heart and support local businesses.

So, the next time you find yourself in Edinburgh, dare to stray from the familiar. These five hidden gems offer a different perspective, a chance to discover the soul of the city beyond the postcards. Happy exploring!

What are your favourite “off the beaten path” spots in Edinburgh? Share them in the comments below!

In a word: bark

Yes, this is exactly what a dog does, sometimes annoyingly all night, that sharp explosive cry of a dog or, believe it or not, a seal

Much better if the dog is a guard dog, because then you need it to bark when there is intruders

Then there’s another form of bark, that which grows on a tree, and makes excelled burning material, if not a little smoky, for a BBQ.

Ot that the bark of some trees can be used as material for carving, and of others, like the paperbark, to make was seems like paper to write on.

Then there are expressions that start to make you think, concerning this word, such as:

He was a boss that liked to bark orders.  I had one like that, almost looked like a dog too.  Never could ask someone kindly.

He was barking up the wrong tree.  Never seen a dog do this, but many people gave so the literal meaning is to waste your time looking in the wrong place

Then there’s bark or barque, the name of a certain type of boat or masted ship with three or more masts, dating back to sailing days

And then, just top it all off, someone goes and says your barking mad.  Probably just after you were barking up the wrong tree, looking for the barking dog on a barque.