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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.

Featured

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 – 159

Day 159 – If you want to be a writer, write

…

The Writer’s Paradox: Why Consumption Isn’t Creation

We live in a culture that loves to romanticise the “writer’s life.” We imagine it involves a worn leather notebook, a steaming cup of artisan coffee, and someone hunched over a desk, reading the classics until the prose is so deeply ingrained in their psyche that they eventually exhale a masterpiece.

But there is a dangerous misconception hidden in that romantic ideal. It is the belief that if you read enough, if you consume enough “good” writing, you will eventually wake up one morning and find that the words have seeped into your marrow, ready to flow out of you onto the page.

Here is the cold, hard truth: If reading is your pleasure, then simply read. Enjoy the stories. Let them move you. But do not mistake the act of consumption for the act of creation.

The Illusion of Osmosis

Many aspiring writers fall into the trap of “productive procrastination.” They justify spending six hours a day reading literary journals, studying sentence structures, and analysing plot devices, telling themselves, “I’m doing research. I’m filling my well.”

While reading is vital fuel for any writer, it is not the engine. You can read every shelf in the library, but your shelves will never write a paragraph for you. There is no biological osmosis in writing. The words you consume do not undergo a mystical transformation inside your bones and emerge as your own voice.

Reading is a passive experience. It is a dialogue between you and the author. Writing, however, is a monologue—a messy, uncomfortable, and often lonely exertion of will.

The Anatomy of a Writer

If you want to be a writer, you must stop waiting for the inspiration of others to do the heavy lifting for you.

When you read, you are a spectator. When you write, you are an athlete. You can watch the Olympics every single day for ten years, but that won’t make you a runner. To run, you have to strap on the shoes and hit the pavement when your lungs are burning, and your legs are heavy.

To write, you have to:

  • Face the blank cursor: It is the most terrifying and honest thing in the world.
  • Write badly: You have to produce “bone marrow” that isn’t quite ready yet. You have to write the rough, ugly, incoherent drafts before you can ever arrive at the polished prose you admire in others.
  • Commit to the output: A writer is defined by what they produce, not what they consume.

Stop Waiting, Start Doing

If you love books, keep reading. Let them be your sanctuary, your education, and your joy. But if you call yourself a writer, you must accept that your primary job is to create.

The words won’t flow out of your marrow until you force them out. They come from the friction of your own thoughts, your own experiences, and the sheer discipline of showing up to the page—even when you have nothing to say.

Don’t wait for the osmosis. Don’t wait for the “right time” or for your brain to be “full enough.”

If reading is your pleasure, read. But if you want to be a writer, write.

…

Another excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – A sequel to ‘What Sets Us Apart’

…

It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone.  It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air.  In summer, it was the best time of the day.  When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.

On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’.  This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.

She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable.  The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day.  So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.

It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her.  It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.

I sat in my usual corner.  Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner.  There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around.  I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria.  All she did was serve coffee and cake.

When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?”  She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.

“I am this morning.  I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating.  I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise.  I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”

“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me.  I have had a lot worse.  I think she is simply jealous.”

It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be.  “Why?”

“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”

It made sense, even if it was not true.  “Perhaps if I explained…”

Maria shook her head.  “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole.  My grandfather had many expressions, David.  If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her.  Before she goes home.”

Interesting advice.  Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma.  What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?

“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.

“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much.  Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone.  It was an intense conversation.  I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell.  It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”

“It is indeed.  And you’re right.  She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one.  She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office.  Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”

And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful.  She had liked Maria the moment she saw her.  We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived.  I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.

She sighed.  “I am glad I am just a waitress.  Your usual coffee and cake?”

“Yes, please.”

Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.

I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one.  What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.

There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it.  We were still married, just not living together.

This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her.  She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.

It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.

There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd.  She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right.  It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.

But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings.  But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.

Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart.  I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit.  The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.

I knew I was not a priority.  Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.

And finally, there was Alisha.  Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around.  It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties. 

At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata.  Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.

Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.

When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan.  She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores.  We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated.  It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.

It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard.  I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.

She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top.  She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.

Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak.  I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.

Neither spoke nor looked at each other.  I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”

Maria nodded and left.

“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests.  I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence?  All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”

My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.

“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us.  There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”

“Why come at all.  A phone call would have sufficed.”

“I had to see you, talk to you.  At least we have had a chance to do that.  I’m sorry about yesterday.  I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her.  I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”

An apology was the last thing I expected.

“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington.  I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction.  We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”

“You’re not coming with me?”  She sounded disappointed.

“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress.  You are so much better doing your job without me.  I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband.  Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less.  You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it.  I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”

It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement.  Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points.  I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever.  The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.

Then, her expression changed.  “Is that what you want?”

“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways.  But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”

“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”

That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud.  “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan.  You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy.  While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”

“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance.  I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother.  She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right.  Why do you think I gave you such a hard time?  You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously.  But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”

“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”

“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”

“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”

I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead.  Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers.  Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen.  Gianna didn’t like Susan either.

Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her.  She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.

She stood.  “Last chance.”

“Forever?”

She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face.  “Of course not.  I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship.  I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”

I had been trying.  “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan.  I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”

She frowned at me.  “As you wish.”  She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table.  “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home.  Please make it sooner rather than later.  Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”

That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car.  I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.

No kiss, no touch, no looking back. 

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2025

strangerscover9

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 3

This is a story inspired by a visit to an old castle in Italy. It was, of course, written while travelling on a plane, though I’m not sure if it was from Calgary to Toronto, or New York to Vancouver.

But there’s more to come. Those were long flights…

And sadly, when I read what I’d written, off the plane and in the cold hard light of dawn, there were problems, which now, in the second draft, should provide the proper start.

…

There were eleven stormtroopers and Wallace, eighteen in Johansson and Jackerby’s group. One of those would be in the communications centre, leaving, at worst, twenty-nine men out looking for me.

I also assumed that Jackerby would approach the search in much the same manner as I would, the men in pairs, as singly, he knew that I would have an advantage.

Eight pairs would be inside, doing a room-to-room search, from the top down.

Five pairs would be outside, one group in the centre, one group at each of the corners, all working the perimeter, all in constant communication with each other.

In normal circumstances, I would be caught.

These were not normal circumstances.

Jack padded his way just ahead of me, stopping every few yards and both sniffing and listening.  At a junction he would stop, wait, and then make a decision about which way to go.

I had to trust his instincts.

Just ahead of me there was a cracking sound followed by falling rocks and a shaft of light.

An opening in the roof where it was too close to the surface.

Jack went quite still.  Voices.

“Be careful.”  German.

Followed immediately by “Speak in English you fool.  You were saying,”

The man switched to careful English, “Be careful, or you’ll fall down that hole.  They should have told us the ground around here is on top of an old mineshaft.”

“Better, Corporal.  Remember. English at all times.”

“Could be where they buried the bodies hastily before they left.”

The man was referring to the story the previous custodians of the castle had killed about a hundred of the nearby villagers and buried them in a mass grave near the castle.  No one had been able to verify the account, nor had anyone found any skeletal evidence.

Yet.

“Let’s get out of here.  The last thing I want to see is a ghost.”

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2026

“The Things We Do For Love”

Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?

…

Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?

For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself.  It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.

Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledged that something had happened the moment they first met.  

Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.

A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone.  To keep him alive, she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.

But can love conquer all?

It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realises is the love of his life.

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

lovecoverfinal1

Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?

For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself.  It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.

Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.  

Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.

A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone.  To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.

But can love conquer all?

It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

lovecoverfinal1

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 4

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 back on the treasure hunt.

…

“Who the hell is that horrible man?” I asked, still staring after the car, long after it had gone.

I knew trouble when I saw it, and that man was serious trouble.

And the fact that he believed there was a treasure map…

“My uncle Rico, he was the one my mother always credited with leading my father astray.  Whatever they had been doing back then, it was never anything legal.”

So, he knows about the treasure map?”

“He knows nothing.  He thinks he knows something, he thinks I know something, but he’s not going to get it out of me.”

“What if he comes after me next?”

It was a daunting prospect, and just looking at Rico was enough to scare me.  If he had a machete to back up his insistence, I would tell the truth?  I shuddered.

“You tell him the truth.  We have a map, we bought it at the bar like everyone else.”

He was right.

“Boggs?”

His mother yelled out his name in a manner that meant he was in trouble.

He motioned to keep quiet and follow him.

He took one step before she added, “You take one more step away from this house, and you’ll have more than Rico to worry about.”

A shrug, a wan smile, and then he turned back.  “Nothing more today.  See you at the Bar tomorrow, and we’ll start the search.

“Surely you don’t think that map is real?”

“Real enough, with missing pieces, we have to track down.  Tomorrow.”He turned and went back into the house, the wooden screen door slamming shut behind him.

Followed by the raised voice of an angry mother.  “What is all this malarkey about a treasure map, and what the hell were you doing in a bar?  I bet it was that Johnson kid leading you astray again.”

Never, according to her, Boggs’ fault, and always mine.

I guess it was time to take one for the team!

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2026

The 2am Rant: A door that is always open

My opinions are my own
 
 

It’s always a good thing to get that across, especially if you work for an organisation that could misinterpret what that opinion is, or generally have an opposing opinion.  Of course, by saying your opinions are your own, you’re covering yourself from becoming unemployed, but is this a futile act?

Perhaps it’s better to not say anything because everything you say and do eventually finds its way to those you want most not to hear about it, perhaps one of the big negatives of the internet and social media.

And…

It seems odd to me that more often than not, you can’t have an opinion of your own, even if it is contrary to that of the organisation you work for, and especially if their opinion has changed over time.  An opposing opinion, delivered in a non-derogatory manner, would be expected to spark a healthy debate, but it doesn’t always end up that way.

I’m sure there are others out there that will disagree and use the overused word, ‘loyalty’.   Perhaps their mantra will be ‘keep your opinions to yourself’.

This, too, often arises in personal relationships, adding weight to the statement, ‘you can pick your friends but not your relatives.’

I’m told I have an opinion on everything, a statement delivered in a manner that suggests sarcasm.  Whether it’s true or not, isn’t the essence of free speech, working within the parameters of not inciting hate, bigotry, racism or sexism, a fundamental right of anyone in a democracy?

Seems not.

There’s always someone out there, higher up the food chain, with an opinion of their own, obviously the right one, and who will not hesitate to silence yours.  But, isn’t it strange that to silence you, they have to use leverage, like your job, to get theirs across?

Well, my opinions are in my writing, and whether or not you agree with them or not, I’m sure you will let me know.  In a robust but respectful manner.

Unlike some, my door is always open.

 
 
 
 
 
 

What I learned about writing – Becoming a first-time writer at age 65 (or older)

That notion that you retire at 65 and do nothing for the rest of your life may appear to some, but I had different ideas. Where would I begin…

…

That is a wonderful perspective to have. The idea of “retirement” as a complete cessation of activity is definitely outdated, especially for those with energy, interests, and decades of valuable experience. Your mindset—that it’s a starting line, not a finish line—is the key.

Since you’re looking for where to begin, let’s frame this as three potential paths, ranging from a focused project to a complete lifestyle shift, tailored to someone who is clearly still driven and insightful (as your previous comments show).

Path 1: The Intellectual and Creative Pursuit (The Author/Analyst)

Given your previous flair for connecting disparate events and creating compelling narratives (the thriller plot), your retirement could be the perfect time to dedicate yourself to a long-form creative or analytical pursuit.

A. Write the Book

  • The Thriller Novel: You already have the instincts of a thriller writer. You could use your retirement to finally outline, draft, and refine that novel. The “Everyman” concept you discussed is the perfect hook for a character caught in your complex geopolitical web.
    • Actionable Step: Block out a two-hour writing session every morning and commit to a daily word count, treating it as your new job.
  • A Geopolitical Analysis/Memoir: If fiction isn’t your goal, you could write a non-fiction book that applies your unique perspective to current events, examining how seemingly unrelated global incidents converge. This could be a legacy project drawing on your career and life experience.

B. Launch an Analytical Blog or Newsletter

You don’t have to wait for a book deal. Start sharing your insights immediately.

  • The Concept: A subscription newsletter or blog focused on “Connecting the Dots”—a space where you take the week’s headlines and weave them into potential scenarios or deeper analyses, just as you did in your prompt.
  • Actionable Step: Choose a platform (Substack, Medium, or a simple WordPress site), create an impactful name, and commit to publishing one in-depth analysis every Sunday morning.

Path 2: The Experience & Mentorship Path (The Giver)

After a career, many people find immense satisfaction in applying their learned wisdom to help others or to a cause they care about.

  • Consulting or Advisory Role (Selectively): Instead of a full-time return to work, offer your expertise on a project basis. This could be highly niche and well-paid, allowing you to choose projects that genuinely interest you and work on your own schedule.
  • Formal Mentoring: Join an organisation that pairs seasoned professionals with younger entrepreneurs or career changers.
    • Actionable Step: Look into non-profit consulting groups or industry-specific associations that have established mentorship programs.
  • Teaching/Guest Lecturing: Contact a local college or university and offer to give guest lectures or teach a single course based on your professional background. This allows you to stay current and engage with a new generation.

Path 3: The Skill and Community Path (The Learner/Connector)

Use this time for total immersion in a new area, satisfying that innate curiosity that drives your thinking.

  • Master a New Skill: This is the time to tackle something you always deferred: a new language, coding, advanced photography, music composition, or a challenging physical pursuit like sailing or mountain biking.
    • Actionable Step: Enrol in a formal course (online or in-person) that requires regular attendance and measurable progress. The structure prevents the project from fading away.
  • Community Leadership: Focus your energy on local impact. Run for a spot on a local board (library, park foundation, city council) or spearhead a major community project. This offers structure, purpose, and immediate, visible results.

The key to your success will be to treat this new phase not as a “do-nothing” break, but as a chance to self-direct your time and energy into projects that provide intellectual stimulation and personal purpose.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 157/158

Days 157 and 158 – Writing Exercise

Start a story based on the premise of a book you read

…

From 24 floors above street level, the view out over the city was bleak.  Heavy dark clouds hung low in the sky, some concealing the tops of the nearby buildings. 

I could imagine the view from within those would be like being inside a cloud. 

In the distance, the falling rain looked like fog alternating between a solid opaque grey wall and a thin veil of mist.

At least, for the moment, it was not snowing.

Behind me, the wheels of industry, as my father once called them, were turning, almost invisible as the staff went about their work, quietly and efficiently.

My father also said that by surrounding yourself with the right people and rewarding them commensurately, your life would be so much easier.

It had become so easy that sometimes I wondered if my only purpose was to sign documents.

Anthea, my principal private secretary, had just delivered the final agreement for that latest acquisition.  She had perfected the art of arriving and departing as if she had a cloak of invisibility.

If i glanced slightly to the right, I would see her at her desk, always doing something, not like her predecessor, Miriam, who was prone to staring into space, or perhaps dreaming of married life.

Movement caught out of the corner of my right eye told me there might be a problem.  Anthea had just stood up, and was watching a courier cross the floor, coming towards her.

I went back to the gloom, thinking about the dining engagement tonight, and whether or not I would attend.  Attendance was optional.

Anthea locked then came in.  She did not have to wait to enter.

I turned.

“Mr Brickson, you have a certified letter.  Were you expecting one?”

“From?”  I wasn’t expecting anything, but that didn’t mean someone might send me a prospectus or details of a property for sale.

“It has the name Mary Waters, but no company.”

I searched my memory for the name, but there wasn’t a Mary Waters there.

She went over to my desk, took the letter opener out of the top drawer and carefully slit the flap, then took out a gilt-edged envelope with my name written in Gothic writing. 

She handed it to me.  Someone, Mary perhaps, had gone to a lot of trouble.  The envelope was sealed with wax.  I broke the seal and carefully slid the gilt-edged card out.

“The Ordinary Society for Oddfellows – A Charity Event,” I said, whatever that is.

Anthea looked it up on her handheld computer.

“A bunch of the more wealthy philanthropists who are apparently dedicated to putting money behind worthy projects.  You’d know most of them.”

She showed me the list.  Odd, they had never told me it existed, because I think I fitted the criteria.  Perhaps my philanthropy didn’t fit their criteria.

“Probably looking for new donors, and the invitation is really an interview.” I shrugged. I had enough organisations on my list to fund.

I handed her the card.  “A Friday night.  Maybe you could ask Dorothy out as your plus one.  She would be amused.”

“Dorothy is still annoyed with me.”

“Not over, not asking her to the Symington opening?”

It has been the reopening of an old art gallery, which I regarded as somewhat boring, but Dorothy had been eager to attend.  She just forgot to tell me she was available, and then blamed me for not being able to read her mind.

“The same.”

“You can be a little absent-minded at times.”

I shrugged.  “I think she is more interested in that new chapter, the one whose thinking of running for the senate.  She said once she had a hankering to be a politician’s wife, you know, the power behind the man.  She seemed less interested when I told her I had no political ambition.”

“Who would want to?”

“It takes a certain type.”

“Do you want me to file it?”

“No.  Leave it on the desk.  The name of the society intrigues me.  I might ask Wegie to check it out.  There, just before something odd about it if I haven’t heard of it.”

Wegie was the company’s private detective.  Nor the usual gumshoe, Beth Wedge was a force to be reckoned with, a girl with SEAL training and attitude, very handy in a bar fight.

“Some might say you live under a rock.”

“Some might say you have work to do.”

…

I was always fascinated by how I managed to find my way into the society pages when I tried very hard to keep a low profile.

Maybe it was the fact I was not married, had not been married, or had a steady girlfriend.  It was not for the want of trying, it was just that most of the women I crossed paths with were divorced, widowed, too young, though I was yet to understand what the arbitrary age that was ‘too young’ meant.

Sometimes, who I was seen with at society events gained a certain notoriety, some unwanted, some not.  Being seen in society was a game; there were rules, and rules meant to be broken. I didn’t, and perhaps that was the problem.

I was not daring.

I was old school.

I would ‘die a lonely old man’.

That notoriety and interest made it difficult to simply ask someone to a cafe for coffee, or to dinner without being asked.

Dorothy had come close to being a ‘constant’ companion, but she was single, never married, and set in her ways.  She was a feminist, but not so much that it was a problem.

She was kind, generous, but easily upset.  I was still learning the cues and could still fall into a trap.

In short, life with her was not boring.

We had, she told me recently over dinner, four official dates.  Protocol dictated I buy her a present for his birthday, which was in a week or so.  I knew enough not to ask her age.

And just as she had popped into my mind, when considering a plus one for an event that I might not go to, she called.

Few people had my cell phone number.  It was a concession that I gave to her.

“Dorothy.”  I’d resumed my position by the windows.  The scenery had not changed.

“Phillip.  How are you?”

I’m sure my health was what she was calling about.  Things had got a little strange after our ‘discussion’ post the art gallery she had missed.

“Contemplating life while looking at the gloomy outlook.  The property agent said the views from the 24th floor are unparalleled.  Not today.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“No, it does not.”

“Perhaps I could help you to do something about that.  How about I take you to dinner tonight?  There’s a new restaurant I want to try.  My treat.”

I considered turning her down, but the fallout would be difficult to deal with.  With Dorothy, there was a downside to any seemingly simple event; she would have the tabloids and social media on speed dial, ready to promote her lifestyle blog, and being seen with me boosted her followers and likes.

She explained how it worked, but I still didn’t see the point of it, especially where I was involved.  I did not understand what influence I could have.

But she did make the event interesting.  She was not dull company, which I would call myself, and things generally happened, not always good.

“Where and when?  I’ll pick you up on the way.”

..

The Oddfellows had piqued my interest.

It cast a shadow over the previous evening, and Dorothy tried to keep the ship afloat.

Dinner was interesting.  I use that word loosely, and got yet another lesson in navigating the gastronomical world. 

Dorothy’s domain was the high-class restaurant scene, and amazingly, people followed both her blog and her opinions.  She praised the restaurant, and people went.  Some restaurants asked her to dine, and she would, insisting on paying, or I would.

It could be, at times, an interesting diversion.

But aside from all of that, and the fact we got along well together, there wasn”t that spark, the one that said you were meant to be together.

And there was that moment, when I delivered her back to her apartment, where we both knew this was a friend moment, and nothing more.

That short ride from her place to mine was a profound moment, one I think had been on my mind that morning.

Time enough to decide I would be going to the Oddfellows event.

…

My plus one when I didn’t have a plus one was Anthea.  The first time I asked, the social columns were guarded in making a big deal out of it.  Now, it was accepted that if I was not ‘with’ a woman, my ‘date’ was Anthea.

We had discussed it after the third outing, and she said then she would be flattered if I chose to give her ‘a second look’, but she could not be a wife and a Principal Personal Assistant.  And that she was not ready to be a wife, rich man or poor man.

She was my plus one for the Oddfellows.

The limousine picked her up at her apartment and brought her to mine.  As the saying goes, she scrubbed up nicely, but then I made sure she had everything she needed and was appropriate for the occasion.

More than once, she had arrived and held the eyes of every man in the room. She was that sort of woman, and I was the one privileged to be with her, not the other way around.

I may have been wealthy, but I did not regard wealth as the sole factor. My father had always insisted it was not wealth that made the man, but what he did with it. He made it very clear early on that it was our purpose on this earth to help others, and most importantly, the less well off

Continuing his legacy was one of the driving factors.

Attending charity events was obligatory, and donating to their cause if it was worthy.

It was why I decided to attend.

The report compiled by Wegie told me it was a new but interesting charity that was looking for donors.  I was here to be convinced.

It said to be there at 7:00 for 7:30.  Anthea and I arrived at 7:25 and were not the last.  She stole the show, and being escorted to our table, near the front, had everyone watching us. 

The table had 4 couples, all of whom were acquaintances.  We had met at other events, had similar backgrounds and interests as I did, and I figured whoever put us there knew exactly how to woo their prospective donors

The thing is, I was not sitting with strangers.  That might have negatively influenced me if I were.

Just before the event began, the woman who owned the name Mary Waters took the podium and gave us an introduction to what she said was the newly formed Oddfellows Society.

She made it sound like a Boys’ Own adventure.  She said she was available to answer any questions as the night progressed.  At the end, over coffee, brandy or Port, there was an auction, with all proceeds to go to one of my favourite charities.

It sounded like it was going to be an interesting night.

…

My turn with the inimitable Mary Waters came two hours into the event.  It followed a three-course meal that, if I had brought Dorothy, it would have been described as pedestrian.

I was not suprised, but I was slightly disappointed considering the ticket price.  Perhaps Mary perceived my feelings during the stroll out to the foyer and into a meeting room where the two of us sat on opposite sides of the table.

She seemed surprised that I made sure she was seated properly before I sat down.

“I was taking a punt that you might attend.  I had been advised that you were very selective in the events you choose to attend.”

“It has nothing to do with the event, just whether ir not I want to go out.”

“I had expected to see you with Dorothy.  I was hoping to talk about food with her.  I’m glad she did not come; the caterers let us down badly.”

“I did not come for the dining.”

“Some do, and it influences how they respond.”

“It shouldn’t.”

First thing I noticed, she was not afraid to speak plainly.  Second, she looked at you when she spoke to you.  Eye contact.  A faint smile and a sparkle in her eyes, like she was genuinely happy to be there and talking to you.

Third thing and most important, she made me feel at ease.  Some people could make you brace for the incoming.

“What would you like to know?” She asked.

The question that least entered my mind at that very moment was the one I wasn’t going to ask, ‘Are you married?’ Which was strange because normally it was never on my radar.

“Why have I never heard of you before I got the invitation?”

“Perhaps we don’t move in the same circles.”

“We do now.  Where were you before this?”  Her expression changed slightly, and I realised my questions were blunter than I realised.

“Does it matter?”

I leaned back and relaxed.  “No.  It’s just that you have popped up as a breath of fresh air from the usual crowd who run these events and who attend these events.”

“I’m but one humble worker among many.”

“Don’t undersell yourself. May I call you Mary?”

“It is my name.”

“But sometimes it’s presumptuous to call you by your first name in a formal situation.”

“Are you always so wrapped up in protocol?”

“My father always said manners make the man.”

She had a folder in front of her, rather sparsely filled, with my name in Gothic script.  She had not opened it, which meant she didn’t need to consult the information in it.  It made me wonder what information people collected on me

“What does your assessment of me say?”

“What makes you think….”

“You’d be silly if you didn’t suss out the viability of the donors before inviting them.  There are wealthy people out there, but it’s sometimes all on paper, or their assets are leveraged, and sometimes they have crippling debt ratios.  I thought about starting a foundation and inviting others, but it was too much effort.  Your organisation is brave.”

“You have the lowest debt ratio in the building.  It’s not my organisation.”

“Then at least you know my check won’t bounce at the auction.  Whose is it?”

She frowned for a moment.  “This is not how this interview is supposed to go.”

“We can end it here.  You have impressed me sufficiently to decide if you have a worthwhile charity that is known to me to support, I will consider becoming a donor.”

“I can ask no less.   Now, can I ask you a favour?”

“It depends…”

“My bosses asked me if I would like to auction a private dinner with me as your guest.  I’ll be honest, I declined, simply because the sort of people out there,” she gestured towards the main ballroom, “are mostly kind and generous people, but some are not.  I will accept a bid of one million dollars if you wish to be my dining companion.”

“That’s not about money.”

“It is for a particular charity.”

“Why offer this to me?”

She looked at me with an expression that told me it was like I had spoken to her in a foreign language.

“When?” I asked.

“When you issue the invitation.”

I looked again at the woman sitting opposite me and tried to look into her soul, because there was just a hint of mistrust creeping in.  The offer was direct, and hung heavy with implication.

I wanted to get to know her better, but this was not the right way to do it.

And it was a million dollars, not that it mattered.

I shrugged.  If I didn’t see the money again, I don’t think I’d be all that bothered.  If she were running a scam, I’d get Wegie to find her and deal with it.

“OK.  Who do I make the check out to?”

She told me, I signed it, gave it to her, and left the room.  I did not expect to see her again, nor expect the million dollars would ever see its intended target.

But it was an entertaining evening.

…

Anthea and I were in my office having coffee.

She had run through several new clauses in a small purchase we just made to supplement the computer services organisation.  It was a new project, one I decided we needed to service the whole organisation.  It was certainly cheaper to buy the company than to contract its services.

My cell phone vibrated, and I looked at the screen.

It was a surprise to see a message from an unlisted number.

“Who is it from?”

“Someone who shouldn’t know this number.”

“Then don’t open it.”

“And not learn who it is?”

“You may not want to know.”

Maybe, maybe not.  I opened it.

It was, in part, a copy of an email acknowledgement from a charity known to me, thanking the Oddfellows for the specific donation of one million dollars.

Then, “I am surprised you have not called to set the date for our dining engagement and then realised I had not given you a number to call.”

The number was added, with a prompt, “Feel free to call me any time.”

I kept the number and deleted the message.  I had not told Anthea about the money or the auction. I doubt she would have approved.

“Anyone you know.”

“As much as it may surprise you, yes.”

She had commented on how long I had spent with Mary; it seems she had been watching and timing the other prospective donors’ times.  Perhaps she had not auctioned herself to them, either.

Then, letting just enough time pass before it sounded accusatory, she asked, “Have you heard from that Oddfellow girl, Mary something or other?”

If it had been anyone else making that comment, I would have said the undertone was of jealousy, but I knew Anthea was not that sort of person.

Still…

“I have.”  And then told her and the interview, the proposition, and then the text message.

She took it all in, changing her expression several times.  Then she smiled.

“If I’m not mistaken, I believe you are smitten.”

“I’d like to say you’re wrong, but for the first time I feel as though there’s something between us.”

“What did Wegie say?”

She knew I was careful enough not to take anyone at face value.  “She is just a woman doing a job, no pretentiousness, not from wealthy parents, just honest, hard-working farmers from the Midwest.”

“Could she fit into your world?”

“Does she have to?  It might come to nothing, after all, it is just dinner.”

“Then what have you got to lose?”

I looked out across the city in that moment, and a shaft of light burst through the cloud cover, giving the scene a very warm glow.

It was a sign.

I took out my cell phone and dialled the number.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Moscow

Beyond Red Square: 5 Unique Moscow Adventures on the Road Less Travelled

Moscow. The name alone conjures images of gilded domes, grand kremlins, and vast, historic squares. It’s a city of epic scale and monumental beauty, drawing millions to its iconic sights. But what if you’ve done the Red Square selfie, marvelled at St. Basil’s, and wandered the halls of the Kremlin? What if you crave a deeper, more authentic peek into the soul of this sprawling metropolis?

Fear not, intrepid traveller! Moscow is a city of endless layers, brimming with unexpected delights lurking just beyond the well-trodden tourist paths. If you’re ready to scratch beneath the gilded surface and uncover some truly unique experiences, here are five unforgettable adventures that promise a richer, more intimate understanding of Russia’s vibrant capital.

1. Step Back in Time at the Museum of Soviet Arcade Machines (Музей советских игровых автоматов)

Forget modern gaming consoles; this place is a nostalgic wonderland! Tucked away in a charming underground space, this museum is a playful pilgrimage to the Soviet era, featuring dozens of fully functional arcade machines from the 1970s and 80s. Think clunky joysticks, pixelated graphics, and wonderfully bizarre names like “Sea Battle,” “Safari,” and “Winter Hunt.”

Why it’s off the beaten path: While well-known among locals and a niche group of enthusiasts, it’s rarely on the itinerary of first-time visitors who stick to grander museums. It offers a unique cultural insight into Soviet-era leisure and technology.

What makes it special: Not only do you get to admire these relics, but your entry ticket often includes a handful of authentic 15-kopeck coins, allowing you to actually play the games! It’s a hands-on, interactive experience that’s both fun and surprisingly educational about a bygone era.

Pro-tip: Go with friends for some competitive fun. The staff are usually happy to explain the games and their history, even if your Russian is limited.

2. Wander the Fairytale Grounds of Tsaritsyno Museum-Reserve (Царицыно)

While Kolomenskoye often gets the nod for its royal history and wooden architecture, Tsaritsyno offers a completely different, equally stunning experience. This sprawling estate, once intended as Catherine the Great’s summer residence, features unique pseudo-Gothic palaces, picturesque ponds, and meticulously landscaped parks.

Why it’s off the beaten path: Located a bit further south of the city center, it requires a short metro journey, which deters many tourists. Its specific architectural style (a Russian take on Gothic Revival) is also a fascinating departure from the more common classical Russian styles.

What makes it special: The Grand Palace and the intricate bridges evoke a fantastical, almost theatrical atmosphere. The park itself is massive, perfect for a leisurely stroll, a boat ride on the ponds, or simply finding a quiet bench to soak in the beauty. Don’t miss the Singing Fountain, especially mesmerizing in the evenings (seasonal).

Pro-tip: Dedicate at least half a day. Wear comfortable shoes, as there’s a lot of ground to cover. Check their schedule for classical music concerts or light shows, which often take place in the warmer months.

3. Find Serenity at the Aptekarsky Ogorod (Botanical Garden of Moscow State University – “The Pharmacy Garden”)

Amidst Moscow’s urban hustle, this historical botanical garden is a true hidden oasis of calm. Founded by Peter the Great in 1706 as a garden for medicinal plants (hence “pharmacy garden”), it’s Moscow’s oldest botanical garden and a living museum of flora.

Why it’s off the beaten path: Despite its central location near Prospekt Mira, it’s a quiet retreat often overlooked by tourists rushing between major landmarks. It’s more of a local favourite for a peaceful escape.

What makes it special: Each season brings new beauty, from vibrant spring blooms and lush summer greenery to fiery autumn colours and serene winter landscapes. It features various themed sections, including extensive greenhouses with tropical plants, a vast collection of conifers, and charming ponds. It also hosts open-air exhibitions, concerts, and offers a lovely on-site cafe.

Pro-tip: Ideal for a relaxed afternoon. If you’re visiting in spring or early summer, you’ll be treated to an explosion of colours and fragrances. It’s perfect for photography enthusiasts seeking natural beauty away from the crowds.

4. Savor Global Flavors at Danilovsky Market (Даниловский рынок)

Forget the sterile supermarkets; Danilovsky Market is a gastronomic marvel and a vibrant hub of local life. Housed in a striking circular building with a domed roof, this renovated market seamlessly blends traditional Russian produce stalls with trendy international food vendors.

Why it’s off the beaten path: While gaining popularity, it’s still primarily a local hotspot rather than a primary tourist destination. It offers a more authentic taste of Moscow’s burgeoning food scene than many city-centre restaurants.

What makes it special: This isn’t just a place to buy groceries; it’s a culinary adventure. You can sample Georgian khachapuri, Vietnamese pho, Israeli falafel, Dagestani delicacies, and of course, classic Russian pelmeni and blini – all under one roof. The atmosphere is buzzing, friendly, and incredibly diverse.

Pro-tip: Go hungry! It’s an excellent spot for lunch or an early dinner, allowing you to graze from different stalls. It’s also a great place to pick up unique local treats and spices as souvenirs.

5. Explore the Ancient Streets of Zamoskvorechye (Замоскворечье)

Step across the Moscow River from the Kremlin, and you enter a different era. Zamoskvorechye (literally “beyond the Moskva River”) is one of Moscow’s oldest and most charming districts, known for its quiet, winding streets, traditional merchant houses, and numerous historic churches.

Why it’s off the beaten path: While home to the Tretyakov Gallery (a major draw), the neighbourhood itself is often overlooked by tourists who rush straight to the gallery and then leave. Exploring its backstreets offers a glimpse into a quieter, more preserved Moscow.

What makes it special: You’ll discover hidden courtyards, beautiful onion-domed churches (like the Church of St. Clement, Papa, a stunning example of Baroque architecture), and charming wooden houses nestled between more stately mansions. It feels like stepping into a 19th-century novel, with a tangible sense of history around every corner.

Pro-tip: Put away your map and simply wander. Get lost in its labyrinthine alleys. Pop into a small local café for a coffee. This district is best explored on foot, allowing you to soak in its unique atmosphere at your own pace.

Moscow is a city that constantly reinvents itself, yet always cherishes its past. By venturing beyond the well-worn tourist trails, you’ll discover a more nuanced, intimate, and often surprising side of this magnificent capital. So, pack your adventurous spirit, a sense of curiosity, and get ready to uncover Moscow’s hidden gems!

What hidden gems have you uncovered in Moscow? Share your discoveries in the comments below!

In a word: will

Now that I’ve hit the age of 65, I now have to give some consideration to creating a will.

You know, that document that specifies which child gets what, or if you think any or all of them don’t deserve what’s left of the hard-earned millions, which cat or dog will inherit a fortune.

A will is both a reason for siblings or beneficiaries to kill to get a reward or the fact you have to make one so that the state doesn’t inherit your fortune.

This is only one use of the word.

Another might be that it’s possible to have something like the will to carry on.

Carry on what?

Life, a marriage, a business relationship.

Does it require will power, or is it a matter of where there’s a will there’s a way?

I will come over. I will turn up tomorrow.

In this sense, it is promoting futility.

Of course, seeing is believing.

And as a bit of self-serving advertising, I’m going to promote a new story, actually titled, The Will.

Inheritance can resolve monetary problems, and not only that, set one of the siblings up financially for life. All they have to do is wrest the family home from the dying fingers of a mother who had seen it all.

Into the mix comes the grandson, a man who sometimes is a son but mostly a grandson, someone who doesn’t fit in, who doesn’t want to follow family tradition, and who prefers to go to his grandmothers rather than going home to his family.

He is constantly appalled at his mother’s lack of respect for her mother and suddenly finds himself in the middle of a battle between his grandmother and her daughter, his mother, over the family estate.

Who will win?

That’s a question that will be answered when you read the book.