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In a word: Incline

When you first think of this word, it is with a slippery slope in mind.

I’ve been on a few of those in my time.

And while we’re on the subject, those inclines measured in degrees are very important if you want a train to get up and down the side of a mountain.

For the train, that’s an incline plane, the point where traction alone won’t get the iron horse up the hill.

Did I say ‘Iron Horse’?  Sorry, regressed there, back to the mid-1800s in the American West for a moment.

It’s not that important when it comes to trucks and cars, and less so if you like four-wheel driving; getting up near-vertical mountainsides often present a welcome challenge to the true enthusiast

But for the rest of us, not so much if you find yourself sliding in reverse uncontrollably into the bay.  I’m sure it’s happened more than once.

Then…

Are you inclined to go?

A very different sort of incline, ie to be disposed towards an attitude or desire.

An inclination, maybe, not to go four-wheel driving?

There is another, probably more obscure use of the word incline, and that relates to an elevated geological formation.  Not the sort of reference that crops up in everyday conversation at the coffee shop.

But, you never know.  Try it next time you have coffee and see what happens.

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Writing about writing a book – Day 2

Hang about.  Didn’t I read somewhere you need to plan your novel, create an outline setting the plot points, and flesh out the characters?

I’m sure it didn’t say, sit down and start writing!

Time to find a writing pad, and put my thinking cap on.

I make a list, what’s the story going to be about? Who’s going to be in it, at least at the start?

Like a newspaper story, I need a who, what, when, where, and how.

Right now.

 

I pick up the pen.

 

Character number one:

Computer nerd, ok, that’s a little close to the bone, a computer manager who is trying to be everything at once, and failing.  Still me, but with a twist.  Now, add a little mystery to him, and give him a secret, one that will only be revealed after a specific set of circumstance.  Yes, I like that.

We’ll call him Bill, ex-regular army, a badly injured and repatriated soldier who was sent to fight a war in Vietnam, the result of which had made him, at times, unfit to live with.

He had a wife, which brings us to,

Character number two:

Ellen, Bill’s ex-wife, an army brat and a General’s daughter, and the result of one of those romances that met disapproval for so many reasons.  It worked until Bill came back from the war, and from there it slowly disintegrated.  There are two daughters, both by the time the novel begins, old enough to understand the ramifications of a divorce.

Character number three:

The man who is Bill’s immediate superior, the Services Department manager, a rather officious man who blindly follows orders, a man who takes pleasure in making others feel small and insignificant, and worst of all, takes the credit where none is due.

Oops, too much, that is my old boss.  He’ll know immediately I’m parodying him.  Tone it down, just a little, but more or less that’s him.  Last name Benton.  He will play a small role in the story.

Character number four:

Jennifer, the IT Department’s assistant manager, a woman who arrives in a shroud of mystery, and then, in time, to provide Bill with a shoulder to cry on when he and Ellen finally split, and perhaps something else later on.

More on her later as the story unfolds.

So far so good.

What’s the plot?

Huge corporation plotting to take over the world using computers?  No, that’s been done to death.

Huge corporation, OK, let’s stop blaming the corporate world for everything wrong in the world.  Corporations are not bad people, people are the bad people.  That’s a rip off cliché, from guns don’t kill people, people kill people!  There will be guns, and there will be dead people.

There will be people hiding behind a huge corporation, using a part of their computer network to move billions of illegally gained money around.  That’s better.

Now, having got that, our ‘hero’ has to ‘discover’ this network, and the people behind it.

All we need now is to set the ball rolling, a single event that ‘throws a cat among the pigeons’.

Yes, Bill is on holidays, a welcome relief from the problems of work.  He dreams of what he’s going to do for the next two weeks.  The phone rings.  Benton calling, the world is coming to an end, the network is down.  He’s needed.  A few terse words, but he relents.

Pen in hand I begin to write.

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

The 2am Rant: Sometimes it’s better to say that an expressed opinion is your 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 most want not to hear about it; perhaps one of the big negatives of the internet and social media.

And…

It seems odd to me that 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, not delivered in a derogatory manner, is expected to spark 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 crops up in personal relationships, and adds 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 – The influence of a writer’s memory

The Hidden Muse: How a Writer’s Memories Shape Their Stories

Have you ever wondered where a writer’s ideas come from? While imagination often takes centre stage, the quiet, unsung hero of storytelling is memory. A writer’s recollections—of joy, heartbreak, childhood summers, or quiet moments—act as a wellspring of authenticity, emotion, and cultural depth. Whether conscious or unconscious, memories weave themselves into narratives, transforming personal history into universal art. Let’s explore how memories influence the craft of storytelling and why they’re indispensable to a writer’s voice.

1. Personal Experiences: The Raw Material of Stories

Every life is a tapestry of moments, and for writers, these experiences become raw material. A hike through a forest, a tense argument, or the scent of rain on old pavement can evolve into a pivotal scene or atmosphere in a story. For instance, J.K. Rowling’s childhood fascination with folklore and her own struggles with depression subtly seep into the emotional landscapes of her Harry Potter characters.

Memories act as a “treasure chest” of sensory details—textures, sounds, and smells—that bring fictional worlds to life. A writer might rework a family vacation into a fantastical quest or recast a schoolyard rivalry as a fictional feud. The result? Stories grounded in realism, even when the plot is pure fiction.

Exercise for Writers: Keep a memory journal. Note fleeting recollections, no matter how small. Years later, you’ll discover how these fragments can be reshaped into compelling narrative fuel.

2. Emotional Authenticity: Memory as a Resonance Chamber

Memories are steeped in emotion, and emotions are the lifeblood of storytelling. When a writer draws from their past, their words gain a visceral truth that readers can’t help but feel. A breakup you lived through will carry nuances—lingering anger, bittersweet nostalgia—that you can’t fully invent without personal experience.

Maya Angelou once said, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” By channelling their memories, writers give voice to their innermost truths, creating characters and conflicts that resonate on a deeply human level. Think of a mother’s recollection of a child’s first steps becoming the poignant backstory of a character’s protective instincts or a survivor’s trauma morphing into a symbol of resilience.

3. Cultural and Familial Narratives: The Stories We Inherit

Our memories aren’t just individual; they’re shaped by the stories we inherit. Family legends, cultural traditions, and historical contexts form a collective memory that writers often mine for themes. A grandmother’s tales of immigration, a holiday ritual, or a national tragedy becomes part of a writer’s lens, enriching their work with cultural specificity and depth.

For example, Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude is steeped in the myths and history of his Colombian upbringing, while Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Americanah explores the duality of identity through her own experiences as a Nigerian in the West. These stories don’t just entertain—they preserve heritage and spark cross-cultural understanding.

4. Transforming Pain into Art: The Alchemy of Memory

Not all memories are easy to confront, but they often yield the most powerful stories. Writers frequently rework pain—grief, injustice, or personal failure—into fiction, offering both catharsis and connection. Consider how Colson Whitehead reimagined his family’s history of slavery in The Nickel Boys, or how Sylvia Plath’s confessional poetry transformed private anguish into poetry that speaks to millions.

This process isn’t about reliving trauma but about distilling it into something universal. By fictionalising painful memories, writers can explore complex emotions with nuance, giving readers a safe space to reflect on their own struggles.

5. The Creative Process: Mining Memory for Detail

Memory is a writer’s secret tool in the creative process. When crafting dialogue, setting, or character motivations, recollections provide a blueprint. A childhood friend’s lisp, a grandparent’s philosophical musings, or the ache of a long-gone summer home can become the DNA of a fictional character or location.

But memory isn’t just about fact—it’s about mood. A forgotten alleyway lit by sunset or the taste of your first love’s coffee might never happen in real life again, but in a story, they become immortal.

Conclusion: Your Memories Are Your Superpower

Next time you pick up a pen—or a laptop—remind yourself that your past is a universe waiting to be explored. Memories are not just relics of the past; they’re the tools that make stories real. They allow writers to breathe life into characters, build worlds with texture, and speak truths that transcend time.

So, ask yourself: What hidden gems lie in your own memories? What stories are begging to be reborn? The next great novel, poem, or script might be hiding in the quiet corners of your past.

Final Challenge: Pull out an old photo, a birthday card, or a childhood diary entry. Let the memories spark a scene, a character, or a theme. You never know where it might lead.

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 222

Day 222 – From a wish to ambition

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The Birth of a Writer: At What Age Does the Inherent Desire to Write Actually Begin?

Every author has an origin story. Long before the book deals, the midnight editing sessions, and the sacred mug of cold coffee on the desk, there was a spark. A quiet, persistent urge that whispered, Put pen to paper. Tell a story.

But when does that inherent desire to write actually begin?

Is it during the wide-eyed pre-teen years, when the magic of chapter books first captures your imagination? Does it ignite in the turbulent, emotionally charged teenage years, fueled by first loves and heartbreak? Or does it wait patiently until adulthood, when real-world experience, careers, and hardships finally grant you the insight to understand the human condition?

The truth is, the writing bug doesn’t have a single birthday. It visits us at different stages of life, transforming us in unique ways depending on when it decides to strike. Let’s explore the three distinct phases where the desire to write commonly takes root, and how each shapes the writer you become.

1. The Pre-Teen Wonder: When Magic Becomes a Blueprint

For many writers, the journey begins in childhood. Think back to the days of flashlight-under-the-covers reading, when the world of Narnia, Hogwarts, or Camp Half-Blood felt more real than your actual backyard.

During the pre-teen years, books are pure magic. But for future writers, reading is never just a passive activity. It’s an invitation.

  • The Inspiration: You finish a beloved book, close the back cover, and feel a sharp pang of grief because the story is over. Then comes the realisation: I can make my own world.
  • The Output: These early efforts are often messy, heavily derivative fan-fictions or tales of magical kingdoms featuring pets as protagonists, written in spiral-bound notebooks with gel pens.
  • The Impact: Starting young instils a sense of play and boundless imagination. Pre-teen writers learn early on that the page is a limitless sandbox. They write for the sheer joy of creation, long before the inner critic learns how to speak.

2. The Teenage Storm: When Emotion Demands an Outlet

If childhood writing is driven by imagination, teenage writing is driven by gasoline and matches.

The teen years are a whirlwind of firsts: first love, crushing rejection, identity crises, and a sudden, overwhelming awareness of the world outside oneself. For many, the inherent desire to write doesn’t come from a love of plotting; it comes from an urgent need to survive the emotional turbulence of growing up.

  • The Inspiration: Raw emotion. Whether it’s the dizzying high of a mutual crush or the devastating isolation of feeling misunderstood, life feels cinematic and high-stakes.
  • The Output: Poetry scrawled in the margins of algebra notebooks, angsty journal entries, and deeply emotional coming-of-age stories where the protagonists experience the exact emotional spectrum the author is currently navigating.
  • The Impact: Teenage writing teaches emotional honesty. It forces the writer to confront vulnerability and translate abstract feelings into concrete words. While these pieces might make you cringe a decade later, they build the vital muscle of emotional resonance.

3. The Adult Awakening: When Lived Experience Demands to Be Told

Not everyone catches the writing bug early. For many, the desire to write arrives much later in life—after years in the workforce, raising a family, navigating loss, or simply watching the world turn.

You might be sitting at a corporate desk, standing in your kitchen, or travelling the world when a sudden realisation hits: I have something to say.

  • The Inspiration: Perspective. Years of observing human behaviour, professional triumphs and failures, relationships that bloomed and withered, and the quiet resilience it takes to simply be an adult. You’ve seen how the world actually works, beyond the idealism of youth.
  • The Output: Rich, nuanced fiction with morally grey characters, reflective memoirs, deep non-fiction, or stories that explore the complexities of mid-life, grief, and reinvention.
  • The Impact: Adult-bloomed writers bring depth, pacing, and psychological realism to their work. They may lack the unbridled innocence of the pre-teen or the raw urgency of the teen, but they compensate with wisdom, patience, and a profound understanding of human motivation.

So, When Does It Truly Begin?

The beauty of the creative spirit is that it has no expiration date—and no single starting line.

  • If your journey started at age 10, your superpower is imagination.
  • If it started at age 15, your superpower is emotion.
  • If it started at age 40 (or 60, or 80), your superpower is perspective.

Ultimately, the inherent desire to write doesn’t belong to a specific age bracket. It belongs to the moment you decide that a story inside you deserves to exist outside of your head.

Whether you are dusting off a childhood dream, channelling current heartbreaks, or drawing from decades of life experience, the best time to start writing was yesterday. The second best time is right now.

When did the desire to write first strike you? Was it a childhood book, a teenage diary, or a later-in-life epiphany? Let us know in the comments below!

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In a word: Joe

Aside from being the short form of the name Joseph, ie a man’s name, there is also a derivative for women, Jo.

The name Joe is said to be used from the mid-1800s.

My favourite Joe name is Joe Bloggs, and he features in some of my stories.

It’s anonymous enough for someone to use as a cover when booking into a sleazy motel and is a little more refined than Smith or Jones, names that more than likely already feature in the register.

Jo could be a short form for Josephine, a name I’m sure some women would prefer not to be called.

But…

Did you know it’s also a name given to a cup of coffee?

Well, that didn’t make much of a splash.  I don’t think anyone these days refers to coffee as Joe because there are so many different variations with names I couldn’t pronounce let alone spell, I think it’s been lost in the mists of time because there was only one type of coffee.

It was called coffee.  Funny about that.

However…

There is another definition, and that is for the ‘average Joe’, an ordinary fellow who works for a living.

Odd, because I thought that was what most of us did, but perhaps it refers to tradespeople, or blue collar workers, not the white collar brigade.

Hang on, isn’t there a GI Joe, a universal description of the average soldier?

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Cairo

Beyond the Pyramids: 5 Hidden Gems in Cairo for the Discerning Traveller

Cairo, the bustling capital of Egypt, is synonymous with ancient wonders and crowded tourist hotspots. Most visitors flock to the iconic Pyramids of Giza, the Egyptian Museum, and bustling Khan El Khalili Bazaar—and for good reason. But beyond the well-trodden paths lies a quieter, more intimate Cairo, rich in history, art, and authenticity. For travellers seeking unique experiences without the crowds, here are the top five lesser-known visitor attractions in Cairo that offer distinctive charm and unforgettable moments.

1. The Coptic Cairo (Old Cairo)

Why it stands out: A peaceful enclave of early Christian heritage tucked behind the Roman fortress of Babylon.

While many tourists pass through en route to other sites, Coptic Cairo remains surprisingly uncrowded, despite housing some of Egypt’s most ancient churches and religious artifacts. Wander through narrow cobblestone streets and visit the Hanging Church (Al-Muallaqa), built atop Roman fortress gates, or step into the Church of St. Sergius and Bacchus, believed to be a resting place for the Holy Family during their flight into Egypt.

Don’t miss the Coptic Museum, a serene treasure trove of early Christian art, manuscripts, and textiles that tell the story of Egypt’s Christian roots. The quiet ambience, combined with centuries-old spirituality, makes this area a contemplative retreat in the heart of the city.

Pro tip: Visit early in the morning to enjoy the golden light filtering through the ancient arches and minimal foot traffic.

2. Manial Palace (Al-Manial Palace)

Why it stands out: A stunning blend of Ottoman, Persian, Moorish, and European architectural styles, set in a lush garden oasis.

Overlooked by most tour itineraries, Manial Palace is a 20th-century marvel built by Prince Muhammad Ali Tewfik. Located on the banks of the Nile in the suburb of Manial, the palace feels like a fairy-tale retreat. Its opulent interiors—complete with hand-painted ceilings, intricate mosaics, and royal artifacts—offer a glimpse into royal life during Egypt’s final days as a monarchy.

The surrounding gardens, with fountains, pavilions, and botanical displays, make it a perfect picnic spot or quiet escape from the urban rush.

Why it’s special: Unlike the crowded museums downtown, Manial Palace sees few visitors, allowing you to explore at your own pace, without guides or tour groups crowding your view.

3. Al-Azhar Park

Why it stands out: A 74-acre urban paradise offering panoramic views, Ottoman-era restoration, and a breath of fresh air.

Built on a former garbage dump, Al-Azhar Park is one of Cairo’s greatest urban renewal success stories. Opened in 2005, this beautifully landscaped park offers walking paths, man-made lakes, and shaded gardens. It’s a favourite spot for local families on weekends, but during weekdays, it’s peaceful and nearly empty—ideal for quiet reflection or photography.

From the elevated terraces, you get a stunning bird’s-eye view of Islamic Cairo, including the minarets of historic mosques like Al-Rifa’i and Sultan Hassan. The park also houses Restaurant @ the Tower, offering fine dining with a view, and the Aga Khan Museum, which explores Islamic art and culture.

Bonus: The park supports community initiatives, making your visit both enjoyable and socially responsible.

4. The Museum of Islamic Art

Why it stands out: One of the world’s most comprehensive collections of Islamic artifacts, housed in a striking 19th-century building.

Despite its global significance, the Museum of Islamic Art reopened in 2017 after years of restoration and still remains off the radar for many tourists. Inside, you’ll find over 100,000 artifacts spanning over 1,300 years—ranging from intricately designed metalwork, Qur’ans, textiles, ceramics, and astrolabes.

The building itself—a former 1881 school—exudes old-world elegance, and the spacious galleries allow you to explore without the usual museum crowds. Highlights include the Mamluk-era brass trays, Ottoman calligraphy, and rare wooden minbars (pulpits) from Cairo’s historic mosques.

Insider fact: The museum’s renovation was a joint effort between Egypt and international institutions, preserving not just artifacts, but architectural heritage.

5. The Graeco-Roman Museum (in Cairo – Misr University for Science and Technology)

Why it stands out: Though the original Alexandria branch is better known, this satellite museum in 6th of October City offers a rare focus on Greco-Roman Egypt.

Located just outside central Cairo, this modern museum presents a fascinating chapter of Egypt’s history when Greek and Roman influences merged with ancient Egyptian traditions. The exhibits include statues of Cleopatra, Roman busts, funerary practices, and everyday objects that illustrate cultural fusion.

The location on a university campus ensures low visitor numbers, making it a peaceful place to explore. The museum also features interactive displays and educational installations, appealing to both history buffs and casual visitors.

Why go? It’s a chance to see another side of Egypt—one shaped by Mediterranean empires yet deeply rooted in Pharaonic traditions.

Final Thoughts: Rediscovering Cairo’s Quiet Soul

Cairo is more than crowds and commotion. These five under-the-radar attractions reveal the city’s layered identity—spiritual, artistic, and historically rich—without the overwhelm of mass tourism. Whether you’re wandering through Coptic alleyways, strolling palace gardens, or marvelling at Islamic masterpieces, these hidden gems offer something truly distinctive.

Next time you’re in Cairo, skip the line and venture off the beaten path. The city’s quieter corners are waiting to whisper their stories.

Traveller’s Checklist:

  • Visit early in the day to avoid even small crowds.
  • Carry water and sun protection—Cairo heats up quickly.
  • Respect local customs, especially in religious sites.
  • Consider hiring a local guide for deeper insight, even at quieter spots.

Let Cairo surprise you. Sometimes, the most memorable moments come not from the loudest landmarks, but from the quiet ones that time forgot.

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

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

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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.

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Georgetown

For those seeking experiences beyond the well-known landmarks in Georgetown, Guyana, here are five excellent things to do on a more unconventional path:

  • Visit the manatees at Guyana National Park (or Botanical Gardens)
    While the botanical gardens and national park are known, a specific, less common activity is feeding the manatees in the ponds. It is one of the few places in the world where it’s possible to interact with these endangered creatures by feeding them grass.
  • Explore the local culture at the lesser-known markets
    Beyond the central Stabroek Market, venture into local markets like Bourda Market or Kitty Market for a more authentic feel of daily Guyanese life. Here, you can experience the vibrant atmosphere, interact with locals, and find unique spices, fresh produce, and local crafts away from the main tourist flow.
  • Experience a local “seven curry” food tour
    Immerse yourself in the unique Indo-Guyanese culinary tradition with a “seven curry” tour, which typically involves collecting lotus leaves and experiencing a cooking class with local chefs in an authentic setting. This provides a deep cultural and gastronomic experience that goes beyond simply visiting a restaurant.
  • Take a blackwater creek adventure
    An excursion about an hour outside the city leads to the serene blackwater creeks, such as those along the Soesdyke/Linden Highway or with local operators like Blackwater Adventures. These unique, palm-fringed swimming spots offer a tranquil escape into nature and a chance to see diverse wildlife, including birds and monkeys, away from the city bustle.
  • Discover Amerindian culture with a village day trip
    Organise a day trip to an Amerindian village, such as the community-run Pakuri Village or lodges like Surama Eco Lodge (which is further afield in the Rupununi region), to learn about the indigenous culture and lifestyle. Engaging with local communities and guides offers a profound insight into Guyana’s heritage and biodiversity that general city tours rarely provide

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet them or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except, of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact that, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street who look like someone we knew and make the mistake of approaching them like a long-lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away from what they perceive as a stalker, or worse.

And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then, according to the circumstances and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me, one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognise was murder. The photo of the man on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated by what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer, the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room. I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realise what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?

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I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low-profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, had no children, and, according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company; I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably, more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with several other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with several other delegates at the pre-conference get-together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bulletproof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me? I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain-killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes and took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I would still be considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try to explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

…

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in and out of consciousness. A nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told me what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have another visitor. He is from the British Embassy, I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realised then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

…

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit, the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service.  He was not very old, which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome, and he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me.  But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you.  So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently, for them, it is an open and shut case.”  I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not.  They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here.  There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact that you were shot had made it an all-around embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here?  Shouldn’t they be here apologising?”

“That is why you have another visitor.  I only took precedence because I insisted on speaking with you first.  I have come, basically, to ask you for a favour.  This situation has afforded us an opportunity.  We would like you to sign the official document, which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious.  What sort of opportunity was he talking about?  Was this a matter that could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush-hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that?  “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do.  They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country.  I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible, so you will stop being confused with him.  I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were.  And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done.  But.  There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal.  I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change.  “I’m sure you are a sensible man, Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can.  They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, refund the cost of the Conference, and travel.  I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri or Sorrento, if you like, before you go home.  What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say.  Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex.  Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

…

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, who had announced herself as the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it: “The patient has recovered excellently, and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed, so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long, wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful, though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him. She checked the door and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then that I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have several witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed-circuit TV, we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her notebook back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti, and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologise for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you, it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest, one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger-happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realised if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry, but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest, he escaped. Once we realised we had made a mistake and reviewed the closed-circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough, no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officers’ weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you, Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrongdoing?”

“I have apologised. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank you for your time and cooperation, Mr Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 222

Day 222 – From a wish to ambition

…

The Birth of a Writer: At What Age Does the Inherent Desire to Write Actually Begin?

Every author has an origin story. Long before the book deals, the midnight editing sessions, and the sacred mug of cold coffee on the desk, there was a spark. A quiet, persistent urge that whispered, Put pen to paper. Tell a story.

But when does that inherent desire to write actually begin?

Is it during the wide-eyed pre-teen years, when the magic of chapter books first captures your imagination? Does it ignite in the turbulent, emotionally charged teenage years, fueled by first loves and heartbreak? Or does it wait patiently until adulthood, when real-world experience, careers, and hardships finally grant you the insight to understand the human condition?

The truth is, the writing bug doesn’t have a single birthday. It visits us at different stages of life, transforming us in unique ways depending on when it decides to strike. Let’s explore the three distinct phases where the desire to write commonly takes root, and how each shapes the writer you become.

1. The Pre-Teen Wonder: When Magic Becomes a Blueprint

For many writers, the journey begins in childhood. Think back to the days of flashlight-under-the-covers reading, when the world of Narnia, Hogwarts, or Camp Half-Blood felt more real than your actual backyard.

During the pre-teen years, books are pure magic. But for future writers, reading is never just a passive activity. It’s an invitation.

  • The Inspiration: You finish a beloved book, close the back cover, and feel a sharp pang of grief because the story is over. Then comes the realisation: I can make my own world.
  • The Output: These early efforts are often messy, heavily derivative fan-fictions or tales of magical kingdoms featuring pets as protagonists, written in spiral-bound notebooks with gel pens.
  • The Impact: Starting young instils a sense of play and boundless imagination. Pre-teen writers learn early on that the page is a limitless sandbox. They write for the sheer joy of creation, long before the inner critic learns how to speak.

2. The Teenage Storm: When Emotion Demands an Outlet

If childhood writing is driven by imagination, teenage writing is driven by gasoline and matches.

The teen years are a whirlwind of firsts: first love, crushing rejection, identity crises, and a sudden, overwhelming awareness of the world outside oneself. For many, the inherent desire to write doesn’t come from a love of plotting; it comes from an urgent need to survive the emotional turbulence of growing up.

  • The Inspiration: Raw emotion. Whether it’s the dizzying high of a mutual crush or the devastating isolation of feeling misunderstood, life feels cinematic and high-stakes.
  • The Output: Poetry scrawled in the margins of algebra notebooks, angsty journal entries, and deeply emotional coming-of-age stories where the protagonists experience the exact emotional spectrum the author is currently navigating.
  • The Impact: Teenage writing teaches emotional honesty. It forces the writer to confront vulnerability and translate abstract feelings into concrete words. While these pieces might make you cringe a decade later, they build the vital muscle of emotional resonance.

3. The Adult Awakening: When Lived Experience Demands to Be Told

Not everyone catches the writing bug early. For many, the desire to write arrives much later in life—after years in the workforce, raising a family, navigating loss, or simply watching the world turn.

You might be sitting at a corporate desk, standing in your kitchen, or travelling the world when a sudden realisation hits: I have something to say.

  • The Inspiration: Perspective. Years of observing human behaviour, professional triumphs and failures, relationships that bloomed and withered, and the quiet resilience it takes to simply be an adult. You’ve seen how the world actually works, beyond the idealism of youth.
  • The Output: Rich, nuanced fiction with morally grey characters, reflective memoirs, deep non-fiction, or stories that explore the complexities of mid-life, grief, and reinvention.
  • The Impact: Adult-bloomed writers bring depth, pacing, and psychological realism to their work. They may lack the unbridled innocence of the pre-teen or the raw urgency of the teen, but they compensate with wisdom, patience, and a profound understanding of human motivation.

So, When Does It Truly Begin?

The beauty of the creative spirit is that it has no expiration date—and no single starting line.

  • If your journey started at age 10, your superpower is imagination.
  • If it started at age 15, your superpower is emotion.
  • If it started at age 40 (or 60, or 80), your superpower is perspective.

Ultimately, the inherent desire to write doesn’t belong to a specific age bracket. It belongs to the moment you decide that a story inside you deserves to exist outside of your head.

Whether you are dusting off a childhood dream, channelling current heartbreaks, or drawing from decades of life experience, the best time to start writing was yesterday. The second best time is right now.

When did the desire to write first strike you? Was it a childhood book, a teenage diary, or a later-in-life epiphany? Let us know in the comments below!

…

Coming soon – “Strangers We’ve Become”, the sequel to “What Sets Us Apart”

Stranger’s We’ve Become, a sequel to What Sets Us Apart.

The blurb:

Is she or isn’t she? That is the question!

Susan has returned to David, but he is having difficulty dealing with the changes. Her time in captivity has changed her markedly, so much so that David decides to give her some time and space to re-adjust to normal life.

But doubts about whether he chose the real Susan remain.

In the meantime, David has to deal with Susan’s new security chief, the discovery of her rebuilding a palace in Russia, evidence of an affair, and several attempts on his life. And, once again, David is drawn into another of Predergast’s games, one that could ultimately prove fatal.

From being reunited with the enigmatic Alisha, a strange visit to Susan’s country estate, to Russia and back, to a rescue mission in Nigeria, David soon discovers that those whom he thought he could trust each have their own agenda, one that apparently doesn’t include him.

…

The Cover:

strangerscover9

Coming soon