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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.

The 2am Rant: Curious children find a curiosity

I am constantly reminded of how curious grandchildren can be when they are not asking you what it was like to live with dinosaurs!

The second eldest, who is a rather clever 19-year-old, considers it interesting that I’m a writer, and, having just met a ‘real’ author who came to visit them at school, asked me a few questions, some of which sounded like those that had been asked of my ‘real’ counterpart.

Like, “How old were you when you first wrote a story, and what was that story about?”

I didn’t think it was when I was at school, but sometime after that, and after a lot of reading. Perhaps it had been one of those moments when a light bulb goes on in your head, and I said to myself, I can write these stories too.

Of course, that wasn’t an answer, so she asked again, when did I start writing?

That required a little thought, and several triggers gave me a date: where I lived at the time, the fact I used my mother’s old portable typewriter, and the fact I had not been long out of school. I was, in fact, about 17. It was 53 years ago; I’ll let you do the math!

What was it about? I couldn’t tell her, but I said I had rescued a lot of old scribbling of mine and put them in a box to look at later when I had the time.

I guess that time had arrived.

And, yes, there was the book, the individually typed pages, some with corrections, unfinished.

The pages were brown with age.

The story, well, I read the first few pages, and it seems I’d started down the thriller path then; the story so far, an agent comes ashore from a trawler to a bleak and isolated village, perhaps on the Scottish coast.

Then there was the inevitable next question: “What was the first story you read that put you on the path to wanting to become a writer?”.

That was easy: Alistair Maclean’s HMS Ulysses. I showed her a copy of the book.

That led to, “but this is about the British Royal Navy in World War 2…”

Perhaps I didn’t answer that correctly; it was after reading about a dozen of his novels, most of which were precursors to the modern-day thriller, perhaps more along the lines of action-adventure.

The next question, understandably: “What was the first book you ever finished?”

That was The Starburst Conspiracy, the manuscript of which was in the box along with another completed novel, and quite a few short stories.

Back in those days, I remembered that I had sent some of my stories off to various publishers, and had entered several short story competitions, all to no avail. And for some years, until I because to old, used to write and enter a novel in the Vogel novel competition but never made it to the shortlist.

It’s probably why I gave up writing for many years, until I worked for an interesting company that had a rich history of phosphate mining in the Pacific and, being given permission to look into the archives, began writing what could only be described as a saga, and by the time I’d left, it was over 1200 closely typed pages long.

I showed the bulky manuscript to her, but by this time her interest had moved to something else.

For me, however, it seemed there was a lot of unfinished business.

What I learned about writing: The Gift of Creating Life with Words: Innate Talent, Learned Skill, or a Bit of Both?

“Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, the most powerful tool we have ever created.” – J.K. Rowling

When a story sweeps us off our feet, a poem makes our hearts ache, or a speech moves a crowd to tears, we instinctively label the author a “gifted” or “talented” writer. It feels as if they possess a mysterious, almost magical ability to conjure whole worlds from thin air.

But is the art of breathing life into language something you’re born with, or can anyone learn to wield it with equal flair? In this post, we’ll explore the science and the folklore behind writing excellence, dissect the myths of the “born writer,” and lay out practical pathways for anyone who wants to transform words into living, breathing experiences.

1. The Allure of the “Natural Talent” Narrative

1.1. Why We Romanticise the Gifted Writer

Heroic storytelling – Just as societies celebrate prodigies in music, sport, and mathematics, literature loves its “genius” figures (Shakespeare, Hemingway, Toni Morrison).
Cognitive bias – The availability heuristic makes us recall the few celebrated authors, overlooking the countless writers who arrived at greatness through deliberate practice.
Cultural mythos – The Romantic era glorified the solitary muse, cementing the idea that true art springs from a mystical well within.

1.2. What Research Really Says

Neuroscientists have mapped the brain activity of skilled writers, and the findings are enlightening:

Brain Region	Role in Writing	What the Data Shows
Broca’s area	Syntax, grammar	Highly active in both novice and expert writers, suggesting that basic language processing is universal.
Prefrontal cortex	Planning, organisation	Shows increased connectivity in seasoned writers, indicating that strategic thinking can be honed.
Default mode network (DMN)	Imagination, mind‑wandering	Stronger activation correlates with creative ideation, but DMN activity can be cultivated through practices like free‑writing.

The takeaway? There are no “magic” brain circuits that only a few possess. The same neural hardware is available to everyone; the difference lies in how it’s trained, wired, and used over time.

2. The Science of Skill Acquisition

2.1. Deliberate Practice—The Engine of Mastery

Psychologist K. Anders Ericsson introduced the concept of deliberate practice: intentional, feedback‑rich, and just beyond your current ability. In writing, this translates to:

Targeted exercises (e.g., “write a scene using only dialogue” or “describe a setting in 100 words”).
Immediate feedback from peers, mentors, or software tools.
Iterative revision—the willingness to rewrite, re‑structure, and re‑think.

2.2. The 10,000‑Hour Rule—A Misinterpretation

Gladwell popularised the idea that 10,000 hours leads to mastery. While practice matters, the quality of those hours matters far more. A novice who writes 10,000 bland sentences won’t rival a diligent writer who spends 2,000 hours on focused storytelling drills.

2.3. Neuroplasticity—Your Brain Can Rewire

Every time you craft a sentence, you’re forging new synaptic pathways. Studies in adult neuroplasticity demonstrate that consistent writing practice enlarges language‑related brain regions and improves narrative comprehension. In short: You can literally rewire yourself to be a better writer.

3. The Role of Reading: The Unsung Curriculum

“If you want to write, write, and if you want to read, read.” – C. S. Lewis

Reading is the foundational apprenticeship for any writer. Here’s why:

Aspect	How Reading Helps	Practical Tip
Vocabulary	Exposure to varied diction builds lexical richness.	Keep a “word‑bank” notebook; add a new, striking word each week.
Structure	Mimic a paragraph in the style of your favourite author, then rewrite it in your voice.	After each book, outline its structure in 5–7 bullet points.
Voice	Understanding expectations lets you subvert or honour them intelligently.	Analysing plot arcs, pacing, and chapter organisation reveals the scaffolding behind stories.
Genre Conventions	Understanding expectations lets you subvert or honor them intelligently.	Read at least three classic works in any genre you plan to write.

In other words—reading is the silent teacher that precedes formal instruction.

4. Teaching the Craft: What Formal Education (and Informal Mentorship) Offers

4.1. What Writing Courses Actually Teach

Fundamentals of Storytelling – Hero’s journey, three‑act structure, conflict types.
Tools of the Trade – Dialogue tags, sensory description, active vs. passive voice.
Revision Strategies – Macro‑editing (plot, pacing) vs. micro‑editing (sentence flow, grammar).
Critique Techniques – Giving and receiving constructive feedback without ego.

4.2. Mentorship vs. Classroom

Mentorship—Personalised, often informal. One‑on‑one feedback accelerates growth because it’s tailored to your specific blind spots.
Workshops—Group environments foster diverse perspectives, exposing you to styles you’d never encounter alone.

4.3. Digital Resources: The New‑Age Writing Academy

Online courses (MasterClass, Coursera, edX) – Structured curricula from bestselling authors.
Writing communities (r/WritingPrompts, Scribophile, Critique Circle) – Peer review loops.
AI‑assisted tools (Grammarly, ProWritingAid, ChatGPT) – Real‑time suggestions for grammar, style, and even plot brainstorming.

5. Practical Steps to Turn “Potential” into “Prose”

Below is a 12‑week sprint that anyone can follow, regardless of background. Think of it as a bootcamp for the “gift of creating life with words.”

Week	Focus	Action Item	Time Commitment
1	Observation	Keep a daily 5‑minute “sensory log” of what you see, hear, smell.	5 min/day
2	Micro‑Storytelling	Write 100‑word flash fiction using only one sense.	15 min/day
3	Dialogue Drill	Transcribe a real conversation, then rewrite it to reveal subtext.	30 min total
4	Structural Mapping	Outline the plot of your favourite novel in three acts.	1 hour
5	Voice Exploration	Imitate a paragraph from three different authors; then rewrite it in your own voice.	45 min
6	Feedback Loop	Share a 1,000‑word piece with a peer group; receive and integrate feedback.	2 hours
7	Revision Mastery	Take a piece you wrote in Week 2 and perform a macro‑edit (plot, pacing).	1 hour
8	Genre Deep Dive	Read a classic in a new genre; write a 500‑word piece that follows its conventions.	2 hours reading + 1 hour writing
9	Narrative Tension	Write a scene where the stakes are revealed only through action, not exposition.	1 hour
10	Mentor Session	Arrange a 30‑minute call with a more experienced writer (could be via a forum).	30 min
11	Polish & Publish	Edit a short story for submission to a literary journal or online platform.	2 hours
12	Reflection	Write a 500‑word essay on how your writing has changed over the program.	30 min

Consistency beats intensity. Even 15 minutes a day, if focused, yields measurable improvement.

6. Common Myths Debunked

Myth	Reality
“You’re either born a writer or you’re not.”	Writing is a skill that can be systematically improved, much like learning a musical instrument.
“Good writers don’t need to edit.”	*Even the most celebrated authors (e.g., Stephen King) claim they spend 90 %* of their time editing.**
“Inspiration is magical and uncontrollable.”	While moments of inspiration happen, they are often the byproduct of sustained preparation.
“Only formal education matters.”	Self‑directed learning, reading, and community critique often produce equally adept writers.

7. The Bottom Line: Talent Meets Training

The truth lies somewhere in the middle:

Innate predispositions—such as a keen sense of observation, empathy, or an early love for language—can give a head start.
Deliberate practice—the daily grind of writing, reading, revising, and seeking feedback—turns that potential into proficiency.
Guided instruction—whether through a university course, an online tutorial, or a mentorship—provides the scaffolding that accelerates growth.

So, the “gift of creating life with words” isn’t a static, hereditary trait; it’s a dynamic, learnable craft that flourishes when curiosity meets discipline.

8. Takeaway Action: Your First Step Right Now

Grab a notebook (or open a note‑app).
Set a timer for five minutes and write whatever you see out the window, without judging.
Repeat tomorrow, adding one new sensory detail.

In just a week, you’ll have a mini-catalogue of lived experience to draw upon—one of the most valuable reservoirs any writer can own.

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 213/214

Days 213 and 214 – Writing Exercise

…

I thought the end of my world came from the rejection and subsequent humiliation following my disastrous proposal to a girl I thought loved me as much as I loved her.

It was never going to be that simple.

It was nothing that time would heal.

And it was not my burden to carry on my own. An event that completely wiped away the horror of that personal failure and replaced it with something far worse.

Created by the pressing of a single button.

June 14th 2029.

It wasn’t as if the world hadn’t already gone to hell in a handbasket. The whole world had become a tinderbox. Presidents argued, ultimatums given, elections lost.

It wasn’t just one man who decided the fate of the world. It was more than that. Men had decided they wanted power, and to get power they used leverage, and leverage came from withdrawing the one necessity we had come to take for granted.

Fuel. In every form. Oil, gas, uranium, water.

A single ultimatum was issued. No one honestly believed it would be followed through because there had been similar threats before.

No one in their right mind would launch a single nuclear weapon of such destructive power; it would destroy a city and millions of people.

Let alone the secondary effects of radiation poisoning that would be almost an extinction-level event.

We didn’t understand what all the talk was about, what would happen in the event of nuclear war, and prayed it would never happen.

But on June 14th 2029, it did.

The president, bunkered down, under siege, having refused to acknowledge that he had lost what he called a rigged election, and with nowhere to go, followed through with his threat.

The launching of the missile was televised.

Where it landed was not. Its launch caused retaliatory strikes, and, in all, five nuclear missiles landed, wiping out in an instant five cities and everyone within the blast range.

Then, within a matter of hours, the smaller but equally destructive missiles started landing and destroying major cities all over the world.

Retaliatory strikes.

No one was safe; millions of people died.

What was remarkable for me was that I survived, because when we learned what was about to happen, the last message to be broadcast, I had wanted to die.

It seemed God had saved me for a reason.

…

Three months was a long time when trying to find the essentials was a battle in itself.

Yes, survivors banded together and helped each other. To begin with. But as time passed, resources were harder to find, more people were coming, more mouths to feed and more space to house them, and getting people to agree on a plan of action saw divisions, splinter groups being formed, then the fighting began.

Instead of being grateful to be alive, suddenly we were fighting to stay alive.

I got out of the big city, or what was left of it and headed south. I had no idea why, other than a belief things had to be better where, hopefully, it was warmer.

We were, someone said, going through what was called a nuclear winter.

I’d found a car abandoned on the side of the highway. It was surprising someone else hadn’t stolen it. Perhaps it was the dried blood stains inside and outside that acted as a deterrent.

I was not squeamish. The owner or occupants were nowhere to be seen, and in fairness, I waited an hour to see if they returned.

They did not.

I drove until it ran out of fuel, parked it, got out, and said a silent prayer for the previous occupants. It had taken me a hundred miles further south, what would have taken me a week or two on foot.

What was remarkable was the distinct lack of traffic and people. Some places looked almost intact, except for the lack of people. Not that I was looking for anyone; I learned the hard way no one could be trusted.

I slept in an abandoned shed that night. How easy it had become not to expect a warm, comfortable bed, running water, and a meal from the fast food shop around the corner.

I could not remember what my last hamburger or chicken sandwich tasted like.

…

I opened my eyes just after making a wish, the same wish I had made since the day the world as we knew it ended.

I should be grateful I was one of the few who survived.

I should be grateful I had somewhere to sleep that was reasonably sheltered.

I should be grateful I had found a can of beans, and I ate well the night before.

I should be grateful, but I learned very quickly that gratitude got you nowhere.

Once people realised that everything they had known and relied on was gone, primitive instinct took over. It was, quite literally, every man and woman, for themselves.

But if that wasnt worse enough, that expectation that life could get better was dashed by a second series of calamities, the explosions cause by the bombs had anl rolling effect under the earth’s crust, and not only agitated existing volcanoes, it restarted long since extinct volcanoes, and caused earthquakes particularly around the Pacific rim, and of course, along the very coast I was making my way down.

Today was no better than yesterday, or the day before. Dawn was almost as dark as the hour before, the sun unable to fully penetrate the dust and fallout in the upper atmosphere.

Intermittent lightning strikes lit up in the distance, along with a faint rumble of accompanying thunder. When it reached land, the storms increased in intensity.

I peered into the gloom and should have been glad I couldn’t see too far into the distance. It was better not to know what was ahead of me.

It was safe to say my wish had not been granted.

I sighed.

A man in a uniform, perhaps a member of the National Guard sent to keep law and order, came up and said, “If you want to survive this, go south to either Cape Canaveral or Pensacola. There will be ships taking people to the southern continents. Tell everybody you see. We can’t stay here, not for much longer. There’s a mini ice age coming to the northern hemisphere.”

Then he left, moving quickly. An army truck went past, then slowed down as it approached him; then he climbed up, and it continued on its way. Were there others nearby whom he had given the news?

Go south?

To a ship that would take us to safety?

Was anywhere safe?

I guess I would soon find out. It was time to leave.

I looked around to see if anyone else was about. There wasn’t. Those like me who ventured away from their temporary home where it was warm and safe were regarded as troublemakers, and they didn’t stop us.

They were waiting for the government or whatever or whoever was in charge to come and tell them what to do. From what I’d seen, the only people in charge were those who took control, and those waiting were going to be disappointed.

There may be food, there may be light, and there may be a degree of normality. But it wasn’t going to last forever.

…

I had always wanted to go on that road trip along the coast from Boston to Cape Canaveral. Not only did NASA launch spaceships from there, but the Disney cruise ships sailed from there.

Or used to. It would be interesting to see what was there now. Or not. Everyone knew about it being a cruise ship port and would go there. Instead, I would go to Pensacola. I suspect there might be naval ships there, and fewer people vying for berths.

I checked the maps I had and saw it was about 1500 km to Pensacola versus about 2000 km for Cape Canaveral. Less walking, and quicker. Problem solved. It was going to take months, but there were no alternatives.

It took a few minutes to put my few possessions into my backpack and set out, not walking on the road, which I learned very quickly was far too dangerous, but back from it, usually hidden.

There were very few vehicles, and those that passed, in either direction, were mostly being driven carefully. As far as I knew, and checking the gas stations when I had the car, there was no gas, or no electricity to pump the gas into the cars.

I had seen one group pumping fuel out of the ground tanks into a tanker. Necessity made many people inventors.

A car went past, going quickly. There were two people on it, a man and a woman. Perhaps they’d heard to advice to go south. I watched it head down the road.

A minute later two motorbikes screamed past, going very fast. Were they chasing the car? Had those in the car stolen something from the men chasing them?

I watched until the bikes disappeared, and the sound of their machines was muffled by the trees. None of my business.

It took an hour to get to the bottom of the hill, and another to find a track alongside the road, twisting and turning quite sharply for a few miles.

Almost at the end I noticed an acrid smell, like burning rubber. Around the corner I could see the reason for it: the car that had passed by was on its side, and closer inspection revealed the driver sprawled out on the roadside gravel.

The car had been torched, and the man was left to die. Where was the girl?

A groan came from the bushes, and I found her behind a fallen tree. She had crawled there after being shot and had also been left to die, except she hadn’t.

Died, that it. But she didn’t look too healthy. I turned her over and gasped.

What were the odds? A million to one.

Esther. It was the very same woman who had turned down my proposal and, as a parting shot, said she still wouldn’t marry me even if I was the last man on earth.

Well, right then I felt like I was the last man on earth, and the feeling was mutual. She looked up at me in horror, and that was enough.

If I saw her again, it would be too soon.

I started walking.

“Please don’t leave me.” Pleading, she had used that voice and tone before. I’d been more naive then.

I stopped. I don’t know why. “Why are you here?”

Not, can I help you? To an outsider, it might seem cruel.

“That man stole my father’s car. We were heading south. He tricked us into stopping. He murdered my parents, and kidnapped me. I dread to think of what he was going to do.”

A glance confirmed some of what she said. Blood spattered her dress, bound hands, with raw skin from when she had tried to free herself.

“That dead guy?”

“The murderer and kidnapper.”

“The two men on the motorbikes?”

“Killed him and left me for dead. Another mouth to feed, they said. He stole food from them; they got it back and took ours as well.”

“Where were you going?”

“South. Like we were told to do before that guy hijacked us. To safety.”

“There is nowhere safe.”

“I’m beginning to think that might be true. Where are you going?”

“Anywhere but north.”

“Take me with you.”

“I don’t do kidnapping, or waste my time on people who don’t care about me.”

“I made a mistake.”

“No. You spoke your truth. I could be one of the last men on earth. That makes me ineligible to take you anywhere.”

That’s when the tears started. I shook my head.

“You cause me infinite embarrassment. I had to quit my job. None of my friends would talk to me. You ruined my life.”

“And all of this, this didn’t have a greater effect on your life?”

“No. I was already alone and ostracised. This just made it easier for me to do what I had to.”

“Then just take me to the next settlement, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“You will be out of my hair if I just leave you here. Someone else can find you.”

Of course, doing what I wanted because I was angry wasn’t the same as doing the right thing. Or behaving like everyone else and leaving her. It wasn’t the first time I’d had my ethical nature exploited, and I would have to harden up if I was to survive the trek south.

I shrugged. I would cut her free and leave. She would have to learn to fend for herself like everyone else.

I gave her my most severe expression while I cut the bindings and then waited until she managed to sit up. The gunshot wound turned out to be her father’s blood after he was shot.

She had nothing but the clothes she wore. Everything she had was in the car, and had been burned. I gave her a small bottle of water, and she drank all of it.

I stood and stepped over the log, ready to resume my trek. “If you’re coming with me, we’re going. Now. I’m following a track alongside the road. No need to alert anyone to our presence. And we will not be staying in hotels or eating in restaurants. There are none.”

She dragged herself to her feet and stretched out. “You wouldn’t have any pills for a headache, would you?”

She wasn’t going to last five minutes.

…

An hour later we had travelled further than I thought we would. Water wasn’t a problem because we intermittently found ourselves beside a running stream with clear water.

As for food, that was going to be a problem. Animals of any sort were far and few between. When the food ran out, people started killing animals. It wasn’t pleasant. I couldn’t do it. Not at first. Now I would kill a chicken or a rabbit, if I could find one. Or a fish. Each time I refilled the water bottles, I checked, just in case.

At least she had sturdy shoes, not high heels, and practical clothing.

Midway through the afternoon, a terrible storm hit, and we were lucky to find an old barn that had three walls and half a roof, enough shelter to keep dry, but not necessarily warm. There was a little hay scattered over the floor, and we gathered it up to use as insulation from the cold.

I tried to remember when I first met her, and what my reasoning was for approaching her. It was difficult given what I knew now about her, but there had to be a reason why she had come back into my life.

Or it was simply God’s joke on me.

“You scared me,” she said suddenly. It was the first words she’d spoken since settling in the barn

“What? When?”

“When you asked me to marry you?”

“Surely you knew that was the next step.”

“It was too soon. I wanted to get to know you better. I mean, it was only six months. You could have asked me to move in with you, and I would have said yes.”

“How’s that different from getting married?”

“It would be like a test run. You know, try it before you are stuck with it. That didn’t come out right, but you know what I mean.”

“And you couldn’t have said that, instead of what you did say?”

“I’m sorry. I was surprised, and then my mind went blank. To be honest, I don’t even remember what I said, other than it was not my finest hour.”

Indeed not.

“I thought about it a lot. Seriously, I’m very, very sorry if I hurt you. It was not my intention.”

I thought about it. Her manner that night seemed out of character, but I thought that was because it was her true nature. Too late now.

“What is it like being on your own in this, whatever it is? I can’t imagine why people have to be so mean to each other. We left just after the riot. A lot of people died. It was terrible.”

“It still is, and it isn’t going to get better. There’s not enough of anything to go around. I think there are quite a few people who saw an opportunity once everything broke down. No leadership, no facilities, so many homeless and dying. It’s hard to save yourself, let alone others. Places I’ve been, there are a lot of people who can’t look after themselves. They spent their whole lives letting someone else worry about them. If we ever get out of this, it’s going to be a long road back.”

“Am I able to travel with you? You’re not going to dump me at the next town. I’d rather be with you than anyone else.”

“Why. You hate me.”

“No. That’s one thing I never did. I didn’t want to marry you, but that was all. I had, I still have feelings for you, as much as you don’t want to believe me. You have no idea how happy I was to see it was you who rescued me, and not some other monster.”

“Don’t jump to any conclusions just yet. I’ll see what it’s like in the next settlement. And if you want to increase your chances, think of some way of getting food. We’re going to need some by the end of the day. If only to ward off the cold. If we get sick, it’s more than likely we’ll die.”

I’d seen more than I cared to admit. People putting their heads down and not waking up. Even in the safety and relative warmth of the underground carpark I’d found refuge in after the first bombs came.

It wouldn’t be long before I questioned my sanity, after leaving the one place I’d called home, and the relative safety it afforded.

Instinct had told me to leave, and I had. I’d asked if anyone wanted to come with me. None did. Help was coming; we just had to wait.

I simply shrugged and left.

…

I’d been on the road for a week before running into Esther. I had obviously left before the riots, but they had been inevitable.

Soon after the group in the underground carpark, where everyone from several towers had gone seeking shelter, had set up camp, their building now in ruins from the bombs, others started turning up looking for shelter.

We had taken them in, but soon there were too many, and we had to turn them away. That’s when the trouble started. Self-elected leaders, people who started giving orders, making rules; it was inevitable.

Then guards were armed, and what was going to happen always would. I left because it wasn’t right, and I didn’t want to be in a position where I had to kill someone.

Those first few weeks were difficult. We were in survival mode. Our instincts were to help as many as we could. Until after a month, it was overwhelming. No one came to tell us everything would be fine.

Outside, the weather made it impossible to go anywhere, and it felt like it was perpetually in darkness. The first few weeks we had what looked to be acid rain from the fallout. And some of the people who came to our shelter had radiation sickness. There was nothing we could do for them, and they couldn’t stay.

The building had a generator, so we had power, but there was only so much diesel to run it. Rationing had begun when I left, both for the generator and the food. People were going out in hunting parties, and came back with stories that were hard to believe.

To me, it was not. A week before the war started, the newspaper published a story that predicted what would happen if some idiot pressed the button. So far, everything I’d dreaded had happened.

The thing was, there was no plan for war. No one expected war because it was never a possibility. It was simply one man saying he was going to obliterate what he perceived to be his enemy. Even then it was said nuclear weapons were only a deterrent; they would never be used.

Someone forgot to send our President the memo.

…

I woke to a murky morning, bitterly cold, and alone.

That was the first revelation.

The second: a storm was raging outside. It was the first thunder strike that woke me, followed by the flash of lightning.

I’d got used to the rolling thunder in the distance.

There would be rain soon enough.

I looked out in the early morning semi-darkness, which wouldn’t improve. It would be worse when the rain came and would make progress almost impossible.

But, aside from that, where was Esther?

I didn’t hear her leave, and was, for a moment, surprised. She had nothing, so the fact that there was no sign of her was no indication other than she was not in the barn.

Perhaps she had to go to a makeshift bathroom by the river. There was one because of the line of trees in the distance.

Perhaps I should go there myself. I needed to replenish the water bottles. And it was time to go.

I stashed my bag and grabbed the bottles. I had got about halfway when a man appeared out of a copse. He had a gun. It wasn’t pointed at me, but it could be.

I decided to be friendly. “Hello there. You heading south too?”

He had been watching me, most likely to see if I was armed.

“Maybe.”

“You’re a bit far from the road. Nothing here but a paddock and a river. And an old barn that’s about to collapse.”

“You got any food?”

Of course. The gun should have told me this man was a taker, not a sharer.

“Unfortunately no.”

“I don’t believe you.”

And that was par for the course. It would not matter what I said

I saw him look past me and turned. Esther. Coming back from the river. She stopped when she saw him.

“Who’s your friend?”

“She’s not my friend. We’re just going south together.”

He shook his head, and the rifle came up, pointing at me.

“Whatever food you’ve got, I want. Now.”

Once again his attention was drawn towards the river slightly to the left of where Esther was standing. Another man came running out of the bushes, heading towards the man with the gun.

“They’re lying, Wally.” He held up two fish. “They had these fish, and I stole them. We’re eating well today.”

“Take them and leave,” Esther yelled out.

“And if we don’t?”

“We haven’t got anything else but what we’re wearing. You’ve taken our food, just go.”

“You’ve got a lot to say for yourself. Maybe you’d like to come with us, and leave this deadbeat liar.”

I could see she was about to say something that might get us shot, so I said, “You passed the burning car and dead guy beside it?”

“So?”

“She did that. With two hands tied behind her back. How long do you think you’d last before you end up like him?”

“You’re kidding.”

“Want to find out, sunshine.” She had a knife in her hand, and it looked ugly and menacing. I hadn’t seen it on her, so she must have had it hidden.

Or found it.

His friend muttered in his ear.

“This is your lucky day. Can’t waste the ammo, and we ain’t sharing the food. If I see you again, I will kill both of you.”

They backed away towards the road, then disappeared. They could come back, but I didn’t think they would. We were two extra mouths to feed, and I doubted they had any ammo. If they did, it could have turned out a lot worse.

I waited until Esther joined me. She didn’t look too disappointed they took the fish

“I didn’t know you had a hunter-gatherer background.” I was not so handy at fishing or hunting.

“Mt dad took me and my brothers camping as much as he could. Taught us survival skills. And how to catch fish with only your hands.”

“You were lucky; I haven’t seen any fish.”

“Not so much. They are contaminated. Strange colour. I wouldn’t have eaten them. I heard the two of them approach the barn talking. They’d seen us come here. They went off to hide and wait for light. I went down to the river and hoped I’d find some fish and give them to them to get them to go away. Seems it worked.”

“If they’re contaminated, they will get sick and die.”

“Fitting punishment for stealing. I actually found something better. A small box of cans of fruit. I think someone stuck them near a camping site by the river. A good Samaritan. Come, we eat, you get water, we move on. We can go around them.”

“There will be more.”

“I know. Let’s go eat.”

…

We are two cans each and took one each and left the rest. Someone else, if they decided to be adventurous, would find them and hopefully would do the same.

We couldn’t carry much more than that anyway.

I guess whatever I was thinking about her, I had to put aside. She was not the helpless person I thought she was, and I was guessing she had to toughen up quickly with her parents.

A car with petrol in it was a prized possession. All the electric cars, and that was most of those lying around, were dead with no means of recharging the battery.

After that I filled the bottles and then went back to get my bag. The morning hadn’t improved, but the rain held off. We both had waterproof coats, though hers wasn’t very thick, but it would do.

Then we took a wider circle route on another path through a different part of the forest. Like me, she was hoping never to see those two men again. Sadly, they would not be the last.

The morning slowly dragged into the afternoon, and the rain came. I had considered staying in the relative safety of the barn, but the weather was never going to improve, and the quicker we went further south, the better.

There had been reports in those brief few days after the bombs when some power was restored, but it was rationed. We had long been told to get battery radios before any conflict started, and one person had said that a thing called a crystal set would be better. It did not need batteries, just a wire antenna.

My grandfather had mentioned he had one when he was a child, and I had gone to my father’s house and rummaged in the attic where he kept his father’s stuff and found it.

One problem: it didn’t catch FM, only AM, but amazingly after a month or so we were told all communications would be transmitted on the AM band. I was one of the lucky people; after the power failed, then the TV and Radio stations, except for a network of AM stations run by the government in case of emergencies.

I hadn’t used it recently. I was waiting until I got closer to the destination.

Days turned into weeks.

We passed other people, most walking the road, because it was easier. There were cars left where they ran out of petrol. Some people had been sick and died. There were dead animals. Plant life was waning through the lack of sunshine, but as we got further south there was slight improvement.

We passed compounds where people had barricaded themselves, where cars were parked, and guards were on makeshift gates. We did not alert them to our presence. Those guards had guns, and they would use them.

I doubted they would accept people from the north because of radiation exposure. We had passed the theoretical safe limit a few days before, and it was interesting to note the wind was coming from the south, after following us for weeks.

Being from the Midwest and nowhere near the nuclear explosion, we had been told the prevailing winds would basically leave us alone, but the devastation to Washington and New York was devastating, with so many killed, and so many who would not survive for very long.

It was as if the Hiroshima and Nagasaki experience had not taught us anything. I had no idea and didn’t care who, or even if, someone was running the country, but given the fact that people had banded together in communities fending for themselves, I didn’t think there was anyone.

The army and national guard had been out and about soon after the bombs, but that slowly petered out when the petrol and diesel ran out, and the electric cars stopped. So did everything else.

It took six weeks before anarchy broke out. It was a surprise we lasted that long. People thought having a gun gave them leverage.

I guess Esther knew all about that. Her father had stopped to help. It was the last thing he did. She was never going to make that mistake. Her father had taught her self-sufficiency as my father had taught me. Both parents perhaps would see the way the world was going.

My father had been called to Washington a few days before the bomb dropped. He would not have survived. Perhaps if he hadn’t answered the phone, he would be still alive.

…

Some nights we slept under a tree, or in a copse. We were both light sleepers. Sometimes there was an outhouse or shed. There was food if you knew where to look, and water.

In one small town, abandoned, Esther was able to find a backpack and a change of clothes. We found batteries, some with charge and a torch, candles, matches, little things.

Some nights she cried, missing her parents and cursing the fools who got us into the mess. I simply felt numb and helpless. There was no guarantee that anything would be waiting for us at the end of the trek.

After two months, give or take a few days, I had lost track of the date and time. Like everything, all our devices were run by rechargeable batteries, and there was nowhere to recharge them. We reached the outskirts of a city.

It was odd to see electric cars parked at the recharge station, still plugged in, and no power to run them. That promise of clean air when we bought one was fulfilled. No one told us the pollution would come from another source

She tried a few, but none had any power. One had enough to move about twenty yards.

We were on the top of a hill that overlooked the skyline in the distance. It just looked like nothing had happened. We had passed the power station on the side of the river, bereft of people, and not generating power. It was gas-fired, but we had passed solar farms which were basically useless in the perpetual semi-darkness.

The trip from Chicago to Pensacola was going to take about four or five months, and now we were at the point where we were just about at Montgomery in Alabama, and according to my map we would be able to travel on the Alabama River. It was a fair distance, but at least we would not have to walk.

But we would have to find a boat.

Of course, had we known what we were heading towards, we might have made a different plan, but with no communication available, we headed there anyway.

And what did we find?

A half million people had arrived before us, all hoping to get on a boat.

And we were at the back of the line.

…

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Bogotá

Discovering Bogotá’s Hidden Gems: 5 Off-the-Beaten-Path Experiences

Bogotá, Colombia’s vibrant capital, is often synonymous with iconic landmarks like Plaza de Bolívar or the towering Monserrate. But beyond the well-trodden tourist trails lies a city rich with untold stories, cultural treasures, and serene escapes that reveal a more authentic side of Colombia. If you’re ready to venture beyond the usual sights, here are five unique experiences that will deepen your connection to Bogotá and its soul.

1. Museo del Chocio: A Private Museum with Heart

Tucked away in a quiet neighbourhood, the Museo del Chocio (also known as the Soul of a Curious Mind) is a one-of-a-kind hidden gem. Founded by Arturo Chocio, a Colombian engineer turned obsessive collector, this intimate museum houses over 70,000 items spanning 11,000 years of human history—pottery, tools, art, and even Egyptian sarcophagi. It’s a labyrinth of wonder for history buffs and collectors’ curious minds, with personal artifacts displayed in a former house. Entry is donation-based, and the museum’s quirky charm offers a rare, personal journey through global cultures.
Tip: Visit on a weekday to enjoy the exhibits in peaceful seclusion.

2. Parque Tunal: A Green Oasis with Literary Roots

While many flock to the bustling Parque 93, Parque Tunal is a lesser-known sanctuary where locals unwind. This sprawling park, home to pre-Columbian sculptures and a hidden library, is the perfect spot for a leisurely afternoon. The lush gardens and shaded benches invite reflection, while the Biblioteca Virgilio Bernal—a modern library offering books and events—adds a cultural twist.
Tip: Don’t miss the park’s Mirador del Tunal, a hilltop viewpoint offering panoramic city views, especially magical at sunset.

3. Quinta de Bolívar: Step into History at Simón Bolívar’s Home

For a deeper dive into Colombia’s independence story, visit Quinta de Bolívar, the historic home of Simón Bolívar. This preserved country house in San Antonio offers a glimpse into the life of the “Libertador,” with original furniture, mementos, and a beautiful garden. The museum’s child-friendly exhibits and workshops make it ideal for families, while the serene setting is perfect for a picnic.
Tip: Combine your visit with a stop at Cafetería La Quinta, a cozy café serving traditional Colombian pastries.

4. La Nuestra de la Asunción: A Cultural Hub in Transition

Once a colonial convent, La Nuestra de la Asunción has evolved into a vibrant arts and community centre. Housed in a restored 19th-century convent, this space hosts rotating art exhibitions, theatre performances, and culinary workshops that celebrate local traditions. The fusion of history and modern creativity here is inspiring, and the nearby Galería del Barco adds a contemporary art flair.
Tip: Check the venue’s calendar for weekend workshops—try your hand at making arepas or Colombian coffee.

5. San Agustín Street Art Trail: A Kaleidoscope of Colour

While La Candelaria is famous for its colonial architecture, the San Agustín neighbourhood is a canvas for Bogotá’s vibrant street art scene. Wander through alleys adorned with murals by local and international artists, often infused with social and political commentary. The community’s blend of art, hip cafés, and eclectic shops gives it a bohemian vibe.
Tip: Grab a coffee at La Casita del Tio, a beloved spot in the area, and let the murals guide your stroll.

Conclusion: Embrace Bogotá’s Layers

Bogotá is a city of contrasts—where history, nature, and modern creativity collide. By exploring these lesser-known treasures, you’ll uncover a side of the city that locals cherish, one that speaks to resilience, passion, and community. So, trade the crowded queues for quiet pathways, and let Bogotá surprise you with its hidden magic. After all, the best travel stories are born from the detours we take.

What off-the-grid gem will you discover next?

In a word: Dear

Yes, it’s that simple word that we use to call someone affectionately.

Or sometimes, with a little accent on the word; yes, dear and no, dear.

In other words, it’s a person regarded with deep affection.

It can also mean expensive, by saying, that’s a bit dear, isn’t it, when we’re really saying it’s way overpriced.

I can’t remember how many times I’ve said something is ‘too dear’ to the children.

Grannies tend to use the expression, ‘be a dear and…’, to get you to do something for them.

Friends, sometimes tongue in cheek, will say, ‘oh dear, I’ve upset you’, when that was exactly what they meant to do. Friends you say? Yes, friends indeed.

And then we always start a letter (always? Who writes letters any more?) with

Dear John (oops, not one of THOSE letters)

Dear Sir/Madam

Of course, instead of swearing, you could simply say ‘Oh dear, you’ve let us down again!’.

And when you lose your job, which is happening a lot at the moment, it is said it would cost you dear, though sometimes it would be more appropriate to use the adverb, dearly.

It is not to be confused with the word deer which is an animal, the males of which have antlers.

There are a number of different types of deer, such as reindeer and elk. In Canada, they are called caribou.

In Robin Hood’s day, killing deer brought you very harsh punishment.

And one of my favourite meats is venison, meat from a deer, which are farmed in New Zealand along with sheep.

“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovered his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife and the people who are around her.

After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little, Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

It is available on Amazon here: http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Brasília

Discover Brasília’s Hidden Gems: 5 Under-the-Radar Adventures

Brasília, the futuristic capital of Brazil, is a city of sleek modernist architecture and political grandeur. But beyond the iconic landmarks like the National Congress and Cathedral of Brasília (Catedral de Brasília), there lies a quieter, more authentic Brasília waiting to be explored. If you’re ready to venture off the beaten path, here are five unique experiences that will make your visit unforgettable.

1. Step Back in Time at Cruzeiro Velho

Tucked away in the Setor Habitacional Jardim Botânico, Cruzeiro Velho is a charming neighbourhood that offers a glimpse into Brasília’s origins. Established in 1959, this area was one of the city’s first residential enclaves, featuring traditional Portuguese-style houses constructed from adobe and wooden beams. Unlike the city’s geometrically modern structures, Cruzeiro Velho exudes rural simplicity and warmth. Stroll through its narrow cobblestone streets, visit the historic Igreja de Nossa Senhora do Carmo (Church of Our Lady of Mount Carmel), and join locals at the community square for a slice of real Brasília life. Tip: Visit in the evening when the community hosts small cultural events, like folk music performances.

2. Admire Street Art in the Túnel das Artes

Hidden beneath Asa Sul, the Túnel das Artes (Arts Tunnel) is a vibrant canvas of local creativity. This 110-meter tunnel, once a utility passage, is now a kaleidoscope of murals, graffiti, and mosaics by Brasília’s most talented artists. The artwork reflects the city’s dynamic spirit and social narratives, making it a must-see for art enthusiasts. Since it’s a working-class thoroughfare, you’ll often spot locals enjoying the art amidst the hum of daily life. Pro Tip: Bring a camera and explore the tunnel during daytime when the lighting highlights the vivid colours.

3. Relax in the Tranquil Jardim Botânico de Brasília

Escape the city’s buzz at the Jardim Botânico de Brasília (Brasília Botanical Garden), a serene sanctuary housing over 2,000 plant species native to Brazil’s Cerrado and Amazon regions. While it’s a scientific institution, the garden’s peaceful atmosphere and scenic walking trails make it a beloved retreat for horticulturists and nature lovers alike. Don’t miss the Pavilhão das Orquídeas (Orchid Pavilion) and the Casebre (a replica of a traditional Cerrado house). Essential Info: Admission is free, and the garden is open daily from 8 AM to 6 PM.

4. Taste Local Flavours at Feira Central

One of Latin America’s largest markets, Feira Central, is where Brasília’s soul tastes best. This bustling hub, open Monday to Friday, is a sensory overload of sizzling street food, fresh produce, and handicrafts. Sample regional delicacies like feijoada (Brazilian stew), queijadinha (cheese cake), and quindim (egg custard in a caramel cup). The market is also a treasure trove for Afro-Brazilian art, leatherwork, and traditional cangaço-style jewellery. Traveller’s Note: Arrive early to avoid the midday heat and join locals for a lively pre-lunch tradition.

5. Discover Nature and Nostalgia at Parque da Torre de TV

Located in Asa Sul, Parque da Torre de TV blends history, nature, and fun. The park is anchored by the iconic Torre de TV, a 139-meter communications tower that once served as a vital link for Brazil’s media. Surrounding the tower is a scenic reservoir, walking paths, and a mini-zoo with native wildlife. Rent a paddleboat on the lake or hike the trails to the top of Morro da Mineirinha for panoramic views. It’s a family-friendly spot that feels worlds away from the city’s formal vibe. Insider Tip: Visit on weekends when the park hosts cultural fairs and open-air concerts.

Conclusion: Beyond the Blueprints
Brasília’s true magic lies not just in its architectural masterpieces but in the stories whispered through its lesser-known corners. Whether you’re savouring street food at Feira Central or wandering the adobe streets of Cruzeiro Velho, these off-the-beaten-path adventures reveal a city that’s as rich in culture as it is in innovation. So let curiosity be your guide, and discover Brasília beyond the blueprints.

Final Note: Before you go, check local event calendars for festivals, farmers’ markets, and art exhibitions that add spontaneity to your trip. Brasília’s hidden gems are best discovered with an open heart and a willing spirit.

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

…

What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.

…

It was meant to remain buried long enough for the dust to settle on what was once an unpalatable truth, when enough time had passed, and those who had been willing to wait could reap the rewards.

The problem was, no one knew where that treasure was hidden or the location of the logbook that held the secret.

At stake, billions of dollars’ worth of stolen Nazi loot brought to the United States in an anonymous tramp steamer and hidden in a specially constructed vault under a specifically owned plot of land on the once docklands of New York.

It may have remained hidden and unknown to only a few, if it had not been for a mere obscure detail being overheard …

… by our intrepid, newly minted private detective, Harry Walthenson …

… and it would have remained buried.

Now, through a series of unrelated events, or are they, that well-kept secret is out there, and Harry will not stop until the whole truth is uncovered.

Even if it almost costs him his life. Again.

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 210/214