Featured

In a word: Incline

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then…

Are you inclined to go?

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

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

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

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

Featured

Writing about writing a book – Day 2

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

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

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

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

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

Right now.

 

I pick up the pen.

 

Character number one:

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

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

He had a wife, which brings us to,

Character number two:

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

Character number three:

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

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

Character number four:

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

More on her later as the story unfolds.

So far so good.

What’s the plot?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pen in hand I begin to write.

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

First Dig Two Graves

A sequel to “The Devil You Don’t”

…

Revenge is a dish best served cold – or preferably so when everything goes right

Of course, it rarely does, as Alistair, Zoe’s handler, discovers to his peril. Enter a wildcard, John, and whatever Alistair’s plan for dealing with Zoe was dies with him.

It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.

…

John’s idyllic romance with a woman who is utterly out of his comfort zone is on borrowed time. She is still trying to reconcile her ambivalence after being so indifferent for so long.

They agree to take a break, during which she disappears. John, thinking she has left without saying goodbye, refuses to accept the inevitable and calls on an old friend for help in finding her.

After the mayhem and being briefly reunited, she recognises an inevitable truth: there is a price to pay for taking out Alistair; she must leave and find them first, and he would be wise to keep a low profile.

But keeping a low profile just isn’t possible, and enlisting another friend, a private detective and his sister, a deft computer hacker, they track her to the border between Austria and Hungary.

What John doesn’t realise is that another enemy is tracking him to find her too. It could have been a grand tour of Europe. Instead, it becomes a race against time before enemies old and new converge for what will be an inevitable showdown.

A to Z – April – 2026 – M

M is for – Memories can kill you

…

The thing about dreams, or more to the point, nightmares, and what may have happened in real life, is that to a child who had survived a terrifyingly traumatic event, there is no difference.

It was a story that no one believed, because it was so terrifyingly traumatic, it came from a young child, and what would he know about such things, and later, to escape those nightmares, he had invented himself so many different worlds and told so many lies, that no matter what I said, truth or fiction, no one believed me.

What tipped everything over the edge was a story about self-preservation. I already had the unenviable reputation of telling lies, and it had reached the point where everyone rolled their eyes and simply ignored me, including the family I was living with, all of whom finally sent me to that place called Coventry.

I mean, it’s not as if I invented a spaceship and told people I was an alien posing as a human sent to suss out Earth’s population before my planet sent a peace delegation.  Not that it wasn’t on my list of stories.

Except what everyone believed to be a lie turned into what was actually the truth and led to the police swarming around my parents’ house and everyone being roused from their beds at gunpoint.  For me, it was particularly brutal, being dragged out of bed, thrown to the floor, and having three burly policemen hold me down until I was cuffed.

Then, after a few extra blows to reinforce the notion that if I tried to escape, there would be worse to come, I was unceremoniously dragged from the house in full view of the other family members and, worse, the neighbours.

They were not horrified.  I heard one say, “That little shit finally got what he deserved.’  Others had similar sentiments.  My father was stony-faced, my mother was in tears, and my sister was furious.

The arrest had broken two of my ribs and made it very difficult to breathe.  My complaints fell on deaf ears until I spewed up a mass of blood and bile in the back of the police car.

Only then did they realise there had been excessive force used, not that it mattered, I was a dangerous criminal and had to be subdued because I ‘had put up resistance to the extent the arresting officer feared for his life’.

I couldn’t make that up even if I wanted to.  And worse, as the paramedics took me to the hospital, the police officer accompanying me had said no one would believe me if I told them the truth.

The sad fact about that statement is that he was right.

Stabilised and bandaged, but not given any pain killers, I was taken from the emergency room to the police station, tossed in an interview room, and made to sit in an uncomfortable chair for two hours.

The pain was unbearable, and I realised after the first hour in that small, overly hot room, that I was only at the start of the roller-coaster ride.

The bigger question I asked myself was why, after all this time, was I there?  It was not as if I wasn’t well known for living in a fantasy world.  My foster parents, as much as they were dismayed at the trouble I’d brought to their doorstep, knew just how troubled a child I was.

Seventeen years ago, I was found in a house with five dead people: my mother, my father, two brothers, and a sister.  I was a baby, barely a year old, who had been spared.

Why?  Because it was speculated in nearly every newspaper in the country, I was too young to identify the killer or killers.  There had been no motive established, and the half dozen suspects the police had on their list had all been cleared, and, years later, with no clues or evidence available, it had become a cold case.

The thing is, it had traumatised me, and for as long as I could remember, I had the recollection of the event, the gunshots that killed my family, and an image of a man or woman looking down at me. 

It was not anyone I could recognise and had wisely kept those details to myself because no one would have believed me.

But as long as I could remember, and after being placed in foster care, I had constructed a fantasy world for myself, the people I assumed to be my family.  Foster care did that to you, bouncing from one bad home to another, until you finally land in a good one, or you end up on the wrong side of the law.

I’d finally landed in a good one when I was fifteen, but by that time, learning to dodge and weave the brutal, neglectful and horrible people, I’d become so entrenched in a world of lies that even I didn’t know truth from fiction.

But as to why I was in that interview room?

Well, given the time and the need to concentrate on anything but the pain, I began to think it all started seventeen days ago, the seventeenth anniversary of the murders.  I was home alone, the real members of my new family out celebrating one of my cousins’ birthdays.

I had not been invited, having been grounded after another incident at school.  I was watching the TV news and saw an item about a man who was from my hometown, a man with a face that registered in the back of my mind.

My first thought was that I’d seen him before, which was not unlikely. He had been the Assistant DA who was in charge of the investigation into my family’s murder, or so I’d been told.

And then I thought nothing more of it until I went to sleep that night and, for some odd reason, relived the events of that night seventeen years ago.

Only I could not have.  I was only a few months old. There was no way I could remember any of it.  But that was not the worst of it.  Lying in bed, I woke suddenly, and before I could clear my thoughts, a face was staring down at me, clear as day.

The man who had been on TV.  It was not possible. 

The reason, I believe, as to why I was there, I told the sheriff I’d remembered something that involved Herbert W Winfield, and I needed to speak to someone in the FBI.

Seventeen hours later, I had the shit beaten out of me and awaited a fate worse than death.

Many years ago, when I had gotten into trouble as an on-the-cusp teen, I was visited by an FBI agent.  She was investigating a case that, she said, was of national importance.

I thought that the fact that she was visiting me meant that I had finally reached that proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.  She told me that it was not so much the crimes I’d committed as the fact that I was a person of interest in another crime, the murder of my family.

And the fact that she was currently looking at prospective candidates for President.  We had a president.  What did my father have to do with presenting investigations? She didn’t say, just that if I remembered anything, to call her.

She left a card.  Normally, when I bounced from foster carer to foster carer, I usually took nothing with me.  It seemed serendipitous that I still had it.

I was still thinking about that card when the door opened, and the sheriff came in.  Whatever I had done must have been very serious.

He closed the door and leaned against it.

I was breathing shallowly to ease the pain and sweating.  To say I was afraid was an understatement. 

“Lies, especially when they involve very important people, can have far-reaching consequences, Tim.  You and I both know that Mr Winfield had nothing to do with what happened to your family, and to involve him like this, well, I just can’t imagine why you would do so, other than it’s just another of your fantasies.  This time, however, there will be consequences.  Unless, of course, you go out there when we’re finished here and admit your lies and apologise for any harm you may have caused.”

“Then I’m free to go?”

“Unfortunately, not.  You have violated your last parole order, and that means the jail sentence is back on the table.  You will not be seeing daylight for at least five years, Tim.  As I said earlier, there will be consequences this time.  Enough is enough.”

Perhaps, I told myself, I might have been wiser not to share my thoughts, but I had assumed the sheriff would uphold the law.

“I’ll give you time to think about it.”

I had to ask.  “If I don’t agree?”

“You don’t want to go down that path, Tim.  Fifteen minutes.”

He pounded on the door, and a moment later, it opened.  I heard, “Sorry, Sheriff, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

He was almost pushed to one side as the woman came into the cell.  She stopped and gasped when she saw me.

“What the hell happened to him?”  She swivelled around to glare at the Sheriff.”

“He resisted arrest.”

“That’s one excuse, Sheriff, but not one that would hold up to investigation.  Come, Tim, I’m taking you out of here.”

“This is my problem, Agent…”

“Thomas, Agent Thomas.  This is my problem now.  You’d best find yourself a lawyer in case we come back.”  Back to me, “Tim.”

I stood, slowly, and winced.  It was not lost on her.

“Resisting arrest?”

Outside, in the fresh air, I couldn’t sigh in relief; it hurt too much.  There was another FBI type standing next to a black Suburban car, like the ones I’d seen on TV.

“Get in,” she said, her assistant holding the door open for me.

I climbed in, and he shut the door.  There was no escaping.

She got in and started driving.

“Where are we going?”

“Home.”

Except we weren’t.  We drove past the exit and straight on up the road, heading for the next county.  I figured it wasn’t the time to start asking stupid questions.  My first thought, now, was they were not who they said they were, but agents working for Winfield, here to do what he should have done seventeen years ago.

At a railway station at the first town over the county line, she stopped the car.  She nodded to the man, and he got out and walked across the road to the diner. 

She turned around and looked at me.  “We’re supposed to put a bullet in the back of your head and throw you down a disused mine.   There are a lot of them around here, and no one would bother looking for you, not even that new family of yours.  There’s a bag next to you on the seat.  Money and a new identity.  You take it, get on that train and then disappear.  You show your head above water again, I will find you and do what I should be doing.  I get it.  You got a bad break.  Now, grow a brain and change your life.  Completely.  Think you can do that?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m one of the good ones, Tim.  Now, you have five minutes before the train comes.  The ticket and money are in the bag; keep your head down, and no one needs to know.  Now, go.”

They had driven off before I reached the platform, just in time to see the train coming down the line.  The ticket was to the other side of the country.  My name was Jim Chalk.  Orphan.  There were the names of five restaurants looking for a general hand.  I guess any of the five would take me on.  There was an address for a boarding house and a lady’s name. 

By the time I arrived, Tim had gone, and Jim had taken over.  Finally, I could stop running.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026

An excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – Coming Soon

I wandered back to my villa.

It was in darkness.  I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door so I could see to unlock it.

I looked up and saw the globe was broken.

Instant alert.

I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there.  I went to the backup and it wasn’t there either.  Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.

Who?

There were four hiding spots and all were empty.  Someone had removed the weapons.  That could only mean one possibility.

I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.

But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbor and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.

Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.

There were three entrances to the villa, the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch.  One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage.  It was built in the late 1700s, by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief.  It had a hidden underground room which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.

It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were near the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely.  It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.

The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground.  I move aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side.  After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks.  It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that.  I’d left torches at either end so I could see.

I closed the door after me, and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch.  I traversed the short passage which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end.  I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door.  It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.

I stepped in the darkness and closed the door.

I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.

Silence, an eerie silence.

I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting.  There wasn’t.  It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.

I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was.  Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.

That raised the question of who told them where I was.

If I was the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan.  The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental.  But I was not that man.

Or was I?

I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness.  My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void.  Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly.  A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.

Still nothing.

I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job.  I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked where there would be no escape.

Coming in the front door.  If I was not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk-in.  One shot would be all that was required.

Contract complete.

I sidled quietly up the passage staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door.  There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting.  It was an ideal spot to wait.

Crunch.

I stepped on some nutshells.

Not my nutshells.

I felt it before I heard it.  The bullet with my name on it.

And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea.  I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.

I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.

Two assassins.

I’d not expected that.

The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part.  The second was still breathing.

I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives.  Armed to the teeth!

I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian.  I was expecting a Russian.

I slapped his face, waking him up.  Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down.  The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally.  He was not long for this earth.

“Who employed you?”

He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile.  “Not today my friend.  You have made a very bad enemy.”  He coughed and blood poured out of his mouth.  “There will be more …”

Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.

I would have to leave.  Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess.  I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.

Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally.  I was trying not to connect dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.

A half-hour passed and I hadn’t moved.  Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.

Until I heard a knock on my front door.

Two thoughts, it was either the police, alerted by the neighbors, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?

I stood, and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm.  I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.

If it was the police, this was going to be a difficult situation.  Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.

No police, just Maria.  I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.

“You left your phone behind on the table.  I thought you might be looking for it.”  She held it out in front of her.

When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically, and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”

I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply, and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”

I looked at my arm and realized it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.

“You need to go away now.”

Should I tell her the truth?  It was probably too late, and if she was any sort of law-abiding citizen she would go straight to the police.

She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity.  “What happened?”

I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible.  I went with the truth.  “My past caught up with me.”

“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss.  It doesn’t look good.”

“I can fix it.  You need to leave.  It is not safe to be here with me.”

The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened.  She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.

I opened the door and let her in.  It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences.  Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge.  She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.

I expected her to scream.  She didn’t.

She gave me a good hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous.  Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about.  She would have to go to the police.

“What happened here?”

“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me.  I used to work for the Government, but no longer.  I suspect these men were here to repay a debt.  I was lucky.”

“Not so much, looking at your arm.”

She came closer and inspected it.

“Sit down.”

She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.

“Do you have medical supplies?”

I nodded.  “Upstairs.”  I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs.  Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.

She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back.  I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed though I was not sure why it might interest her.

She helped me remove my shirt, and then cleaned the wound.  Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet.  It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.

When she’d finished she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”

No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.

“Alisha?”

“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you.  She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”

“That was wrong of her to do that.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.  Will you call her?”

“Yes.  I can’t stay here now.  You should go now.  Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”

She smiled.  “As you say, I was never here.”

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2022

strangerscover9

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 87/88

Days 87 and 88 – Repurposing old stories that didn’t get finished

…

From Dusty Box to Bestseller Shelf

How to Transform a Forgotten Manuscript into a Blockbuster Novel

You’ve probably been there: a stack of rejected drafts, half‑finished scenes, a “story” that was once your baby and now lives at the bottom of a shoebox labelled “Failed Ideas.”
If you’re reading this, you suspect there’s still a spark in that scrap of paper. Good news—there is a systematic way to rescue, re‑ignite, and repurpose that old manuscript into a market‑ready bestseller.

Below is a step‑by‑step playbook, packed with tips, tricks, and real‑world examples, that will help you rehydrate a dead story, give it fresh legs, and position it for commercial success.

1. Give the Manuscript a “Health Check”

Before you start rewriting, you need to diagnose the problem. Treat the manuscript like a patient—identify its vitals, its ailments, and its strengths.

What to ExamineWhy It MattersQuick Diagnostic Tools
Core PremiseIs the central idea still compelling?Write the premise in one sentence. If it doesn’t make you sit up, the story needs a new hook.
Genre FitDoes the story match a currently hot market?Compare against the top 10 NYT bestseller lists in your genre.
Character ArcsAre the protagonists dynamic and relatable?Plot each major character’s “need → want → transformation.”
StructureDoes the story follow a proven narrative skeleton?Run a quick Save the Cat beat sheet or a Three‑Act outline.
Voice/ToneIs the narrative voice distinct or generic?Read a random paragraph aloud. Does it sound like you?
Marketable ElementsHook, conflict, stakes, and a unique “twist”?Highlight any scenes that feel “movie‑ready.”

Result: You’ll end up with a diagnostic report that tells you whether to revive, re‑tool, or re‑cast the manuscript. Most “failed” stories survive this check—they just need a new lens.

2. Re‑Imagine the Core Premise

A stale premise is the most common reason a story lands in the “failed” pile. The trick is not to discard it but to re‑frame it so it hits a modern, market‑ready nerve.

2.1 Ask the “What If?” Questions

Original Premise“What If?” TwistNew Premise (Elevator Pitch)
A medieval blacksmith discovers a dragon.What if the blacksmith is a disgraced scientist in a near‑future dystopia who discovers a bio‑engineered dragon?“In a world where corporations weaponize myth, a disgraced bio‑engineer must tame a living, breathing dragon to expose the truth.”
A teenage girl moves to a small town and finds a hidden garden.What if the garden is a portal to a parallel society that mirrors the protagonist’s inner trauma?“When a grieving teen discovers a portal garden, she must confront the alternate version of herself to heal.”

Exercise: Take the original one‑sentence premise and apply at least three “What If?” variations. Pick the one that feels freshest and most marketable.

2.2 Align With Current Trends

  • Genre Hybrids are hot (e.g., sci‑fi romance, cozy mystery + fantasy).
  • Social Relevance: Stories that echo current cultural conversations (AI ethics, climate change, identity).
  • Series Potential: Publishers love concepts that can be expanded into trilogies or longer series.

Tip: Use tools like Google Trends, Amazon “Look Inside”, or Goodreads “Listopia” to spot what readers are searching for right now. If your premise can be nudged to meet one of those trends, you’ve already added commercial ammunition.

3. Re‑Structure Using Proven Narrative Skeletons

Even a brilliant idea can flop if it’s tangled in a messy structure. Re‑mapping the story onto a proven framework can instantly improve pacing, tension, and reader satisfaction.

3.1 Choose a Blueprint

BlueprintIdeal ForKey Beats
Save the Cat (Blake Snyder)Commercial fiction, romance, thrillersOpening Image → Catalyst → Debate → Break into Two → Midpoint → All Is Lost → Finale
The Hero’s Journey (Campbell)Epic fantasy, adventure, mythic talesCall to Adventure → Road of Trials → Abyss → Return with the Elixir
The Seven‑Point Story StructureLiterary & genre fictionHook → Plot Turn 1 → Pinch Point 1 → Midpoint → Pinch Point 2 → Plot Turn 2 → Resolution
Three‑Act + Plot PointsAll fictionSetup (Act 1), Confrontation (Act 2), Resolution (Act 3)

Action: Draft a quick outline of your story using one of these skeletons. If you find large gaps (e.g., missing midpoint twist), note them for the next rewrite round.

3.2 Insert “Set‑Pieces” that Sell

  • The Hook (First 10 pages): A scene that drops the protagonist into immediate conflict.
  • The Midpoint Twist: A revelation that flips the stakes.
  • The Dark Night of the Soul: The protagonist’s lowest point—crucial for emotional payoff.
  • The Final Image: Mirrors the opening but shows transformation.

If your original manuscript lacks any of these, write a new scene specifically to fill the gap. Don’t be afraid to add fresh material; you’re building a new book on an old foundation.

4. Refresh Characters – Make Them Marketable

Characters are the heart of any bestseller. A weak protagonist is a death sentence, no matter how clever the plot.

4.1 Profile Every Major Character

ElementExample Prompt
Core DesireWhat does the character really want, beyond the plot?
FlawWhat internal flaw sabotages their progress?
ArcHow does the character change from start to finish?
Unique TraitWhat singular, memorable detail makes them stand out?
Market TagCan you pitch them in 5 words? (e.g., “The Reluctant Vampire Detective”)

Write a one‑page character cheat sheet for each protagonist and antagonist. Having these at hand makes it easier to spot flat or generic figures in the old draft.

4.2 Apply the “Baker’s Dozen” Upgrade

From The Writer’s Digest handbook: upgrade at least 13 aspects of each central character:

  1. Name – make it memorable and genre‑appropriate.
  2. Physical quirk – a scar, a tattoo, a habit.
  3. Voice – distinct speech pattern or catchphrase.
  4. Backstory – a secret that fuels the main conflict.
  5. Goal vs. Motivation – clarify the external goal and internal need.
  6. Obsession – an irrational compulsion that drives choices.
  7. Conflict with protagonist – deepen the antagonist’s personal stake.
  8. Moral code – what lines they won’t cross?
  9. Relationship dynamic – unique chemistry with the love interest.
  10. Transformation trigger – the event that forces change.
  11. Iconic scene – a set‑piece that showcases them.
  12. Symbolic object – a keepsake with narrative weight.
  13. Future hook – a thread that could spin off a sequel.

If you can’t think of a change for a character, that’s a signal to ditch them or merge them with another role.

5. Update the Writing Style – Make It Sellable

Even a great plot can get lost under clunky prose. Here are three high‑impact ways to polish the language without doing a full rewrite.

TechniqueHow to ApplyWhy It Works
Show, Don’t Tell (with a Twist)Replace “She was angry” with a concrete action: “She slammed the door, the hinges screaming.”Readers feel the emotion, not just read it.
Active Voice + Tight SentencesCut passive constructions: “The letter was written by him” → “He wrote the letter.”Increases momentum, especially important in genre fiction.
Sensory LayeringAdd at least one sensory detail (smell, sound, texture) per paragraph.Immerses readers; sensory‑rich prose sells better on book‑covers and blurbs.
Dialogue Tags → Action BeatsReplace “‘I’m scared,’ she said.” with “‘I’m scared.’ She curled her fingers around the cold railing.”Makes dialogue feel natural and adds subtext.
Consistent POVIf you’re switching between first‑person and third‑person, decide on ONE and stick to it.Reduces confusion, improves narrative cohesion.

Quick Exercise: Take a random 500‑word excerpt from the old manuscript. Apply all five techniques above. If the passage reads noticeably tighter, you’ve unlocked a major upgrade.

6. Conduct a Mini‑Market Test – Before You Go Full‑Scale

You don’t have to commit to a full publishing contract to gauge market viability. A mini‑test can save months of work.

  1. Create a 1,000‑Word Sample – The opening hook + the first major conflict.
  2. Build a Simple Landing Page – Use Carrd or Substack. Include a compelling tagline, cover mock‑up, and a “Leave your email for early access” form.
  3. Drive Targeted Traffic –
    • Facebook genre groups (run a $5 boost).
    • Reddit threads (r/romancewriters, r/fantasy).
    • TikTok “booktok” teaser video (30‑sec reading).
  4. Collect Data – Click‑through rates, sign‑ups, comments.
  5. Iterate – If response is lukewarm, revisit the premise or hook; if it’s hot, you have proof of concept for agents/publishers.

Success Metric: At least 200 email sign‑ups within two weeks for a debut‑author genre piece is a strong signal.

7. Position the Manuscript for Agents & Publishers

Now that the story is revived, it’s time to package it.

ElementPro Tip
Query LetterOpen with the hook (first line of your revised opening). Follow the classic “who you are, what you’ve written, why it matters.” Keep it under 300 words.
Synopsis (1‑page)Highlight the new three‑act structure, not the original messy outline.
Sample ChaptersProvide the revised opening and a later climactic chapter—show both the hook and the payoff.
Cover ConceptEven before a designer, sketch a cover hook (e.g., “A dragon in a biotech lab”). This tells agents you’ve thought about market placement.
Marketing PitchMention the mini‑test numbers (e.g., “200+ readers signed up in 10 days”) and any social buzz (“#DragonBio trending on TikTok”).

Agents love a story that already shows traction; your mini‑test data becomes a persuasive bullet point.

8. Bonus: Turn the “Fodder” into a Series Blueprint

Best‑selling series dominate the market. When you rescue a single story, think ahead:

  1. Identify the Core Conflict – Can it be escalated in a sequel?
  2. Map Out the World – Create a Series Bible (rules, geography, magic system).
  3. Plant Seedlings – Insert a future plot thread (a mysterious organisation, a hidden artifact).
  4. Develop Secondary Characters – Give them arcs that can become focal points in later books.

Having a series roadmap not only makes the current book stronger but also shows publishers you have a long‑term vision—something every bestseller author needs.

TL;DR Checklist

✅Action
1Diagnose the manuscript (premise, genre, structure, characters).
2Re‑imagine the core premise with “What If?” twists and trend alignment.
3Re‑structure using a proven narrative skeleton; insert required set‑pieces.
4Upgrade each major character with the 13‑point character checklist.
5Polish prose: show, active voice, sensory details, dialogue beats, consistent POV.
6Run a 1,000‑word mini‑market test and collect real data.
7Package a query packet (letter, synopsis, sample chapters, cover hook, marketing pitch).
8Sketch a series bible to demonstrate future potential.

If you follow these eight steps, you’ll turn that dust‑covered manuscript into a market‑ready, agent‑friendly bestseller candidate—or at the very least, a polished novel that stands a genuine chance of breaking through the noise.

Real‑World Example: From Rejection to Royalty

The case of “The Last Alchemist” (pseudonym).

  • Original State: A 30,000‑word fantasy short story shelved in 2015 after two “nice try” rejection emails.
  • Revival Process:
    1. Premise Shift: “What if the alchemist is actually a disgraced chemist in a post‑pandemic world where alchemy is a regulated industry?”
    2. Structure: Mapped onto the Save the Cat beat sheet. Added a mid‑point betrayal.
    3. Character Upgrade: Gave the protagonist a scar that glows when she uses forbidden chemistry—a symbolic “hidden power.”
    4. Prose Polish: Trimmed 12,000 words, tightened dialogue, added scent of iron in every lab scene.
    5. Mini‑Test: 350 sign‑ups on a landing page in 3 weeks, plus a TikTok video that hit 12k views.
    6. Result: Agent query accepted; the manuscript sold to a mid‑size imprint and hit the USA Today Top 50 within six months.

The moral? A forgotten story is just a raw ingredient—give it the right seasoning, and it can become a bestseller feast.

Final Thought

Every writer has a box of “failed” ideas. The difference between a discarded draft and a bestseller isn’t magic; it’s methodical creativity. Diagnose, re‑imagine, restructure, and market‑test. Then package it like a product that readers can’t resist.

So dig that shoebox out, pull out one of those dusty cast-offs and get ready to turn it into your next gem.

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

…

My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.

I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.

Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.

Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility that the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.

The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.

I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.

The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the clientele the hotel attracted.

I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’, but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.

Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?

Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.

There was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and keeping an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.

The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.

As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.

There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.

With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.

A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him he was not the concierge, and instead he brushed past me like I wasn’t there.

He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.

Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.

I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position, then clunked when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the lift lobby, only what was in the direction of the car entrance.

The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”

“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”

He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.

Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”

“Good. Let’s go over to the desk and see what we can do for you.”

I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.

“Name of guest, sir?”

“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.

She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”

Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”

Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”

An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”

Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”

I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.

“No.”

“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”

She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”

“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.

“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”

She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.

The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”

“No. You have more than you can know.”

“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”

“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”

Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.

I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.

…

© Charles Heath – 2018-2025

NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 15

It’s the halfway mark.

Checking the word count, I’m up to over 25,000 words, so that’s around the halfway mark.

But…

I’m simultaneously working on chapters 6 through 13 of part 3, and since it’s partly written and in outline, a few parts are missing. I think I’m going to have to go back and, at the very least, read it again and put in notes for the first edit.

Several tangents have caused issues going back, but it’s nothing major, and if I have time before the month ends, I will fix it. Otherwise, it can wait until the first edit.

Otherwise, it’s not all doom and gloom.

Going forward, I have the outlines for chapters 14 through 20, and they follow along from those previous. And I still have to find a place for an interlude that will have a bearing later on.

Of course, in the meantime, all of it will run through the theatre of my dreams.

“Sunday in New York”, a romantic adventure that’s not a walk in the park!

“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.

When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend, that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.

From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.

There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just a number of small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, points to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.

Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints of impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovered piece by piece damning evidence she is about to leave him for another man.

Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?

Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?

Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence is about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?

As they say in the classics, read on!

Purchase:

http://tinyurl.com/Amazon-SundayInNewYork

The cinema of my dreams – It all started in Venice – Episode 1

When you least expect it

…

I was minding my own business, as the saying goes.

Having made my mark on the world, I had retired from a world that I hardly recognized as what had once been.

Pandemics, political games, countries on the brink of disaster, and what could be called a world gone mad seemed to be the new normal, though it was hard to say what the old normal was.

So, I let all flow on past me, like water under the bridge, much the same that I was now standing on, overlooking the Grand Canal in Venice, the second to last whistle-stop on what had been a long respite from the real world.

I’d also been lamenting the death of the only woman I’d ever loved and for a long time the only thing that made sense.

She was with me always, in life and in death, reminding me that she would not want me to simply give up on life.  Sometimes those words fell on deaf ears, but today was a good day.

She had always loved Venice and we always came for the Carnival, but this was the first year I’d missed it.  It would not be the same without her.

After a while I moved on, over the bridge, heading back to the apartment, one of several in the major cities we traveled to often, Paris, London, Istanbul, and Vienna to name a few.

I stopped at a Cafe, one we often did when Violetta was alive, and the owner served me himself.  It was, coincidentally, where Violetta and I first met, a story in itself

Then it was back home.

There were certain instincts I had, acquired when I lived in another world, and one was telling me something was not right.

I looked up and down the street but everything seemed normal.  It was part of the city where cars were permitted, though I chose not to have one.

I shrugged.  Perhaps my instincts were wrong, after all, it had been a long time since I’d needed them.

As I approached the front door to the building, I could see a man come from the opposite side of the street, heading towards the same doorway.  He’d timed it to arrive at the same time.

Normally it wouldn’t bother me, but he did not look like a resident or a visitor.

“Mr. Wallace?”

As I went to put the key in the lock, he called out, his timing not quite getting him to the front door.  Perhaps that was because I’d quickened my pace.

I was going to ignore him, but something told me not to.  He seemed familiar.

I turned, just as he reached me.

“Mr. Wallace?”

“Who wants to Know?”

“Alfie Simkins.  Who I work for is irrelevant, but we need to have a short discussion.”

OK, the irrelevant reference told me everything I needed to know.  It was my past, coming back to haunt me.

“About what?”

“Nothing I would care to utter in the street.”

I gave him one of those long hard stares, the one known to unnerve even the hardest of opponents, but he didn’t flinch.

I knew his sort, and he was the last person I wanted to talk to.  But just to make sure he was who he was intimating he was…

“Who sent you?”

“Rodby.”

And there it was.  That blast from the past, a name I had hoped I’d never hear again.

I opened the door and he followed me in, then up the elevator to the third floor.  At the time I could not afford the top floor, but it was comfortable enough, even if the view was somewhat limited.

He’d barely made it through the door before I asked, “I need some proof…”

“That I’m not an assassin, he said you’d require it.  Two words, Alan McWhirter.”

There was a name I hadn’t heard in a long time, almost twenty years, my original name, lost after becoming so many different people.  There had been times when I hardly knew who I was myself.

Now it was only a matter of what Rodby wanted, usually the impossible.

“How is he?  He must be about a hundred years old by now.”  He was close to that when I first met him, oh so long ago.

“Still comes into the office every day, still sharp as a tack as they say.”

The man would never die or lose his marbles.

“So, what’s this about?”

“A recording a surveillance team made and which they thought held no significance.”

“But Rodby did.”

“One of the analysts, you might remember her, Wendy Tucker, thought it might be relevant so she raised a flag.”

I did remember her, and by now she would be as old as I was and probably the only surviving member of the old team.  But my memories of her were for other reasons.

“Yes, and I’m surprised she’s still there.”

“She heard your name, and another, but perhaps I should play the recording and then comment on it.”

He put his phone on the bench and played it.

A male voice accented, eastern European I thought, spoke first.  “I’m told you knew a man named Egan Watts.”

“There’s a name I never expected to hear again.”  A female voice and one I thought I recognized.

“Then you did know him?”

“Briefly, and not all that well.  He and I went to an industry function once after we met in rather unusual circumstances, but whatever it was, it didn’t last long.  He put work before anything else, so we parted.”

“Amicably?”

“Yes.  For a while after we crossed paths, had dinner, you know.”

It had been a time when I’d been in recovery and retraining and had time for such a relationship.  Nothing permanent, but just fun.  She hadn’t been looking for anything permanent either.

“So you would know him now?”

“God no.  It’s been a long time, and last I heard, he was married and traveling the world.”

“His wife died.  Now he’s in Venice.  We’d like you to pick up where you left off.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” she said.  “Chances are he’s moved on and forgotten all about me.”

“Be that as it may, this isn’t a request.  We ask you to do, or there will be consequences.”

Silence, perhaps a moment to reflect on exactly what those consequences might be, then, “What for?”

“That’s none of your concern.  All you are required to do is rekindle your relationship.  How you do it is your business, but you better go and pack for a long stay.”

Juliet Ambrose. 

I remembered the voice, and the distinctiveness of its soft Irish accent, almost mesmerizing.

She had been one of the doctors supervising my recovery and she seemed to be out of sorts, so I’d asked her out to dinner, and talk if she wanted to.  She didn’t, but one thing led to another…

That’s where Alfie stopped the recording.

“Good to know then,” I said, ” it’s time to leave Venice and move on.”  The expression on Alfie’s face told me that was not what was going to happen.  “Or…”

“The man in the conversation is Larry Pomisor, a key figure in the Waterville organization.”

That said, it all came back to me in a flood.  An assignment that specifically targeted Larry’s brother Andre, and how spectacularly it failed.  Andre had been killed, which was the mission objective, but so had his wife and children, which was not, and Larry had sworn to find his killer.

Apparently, he now had.

“Then if he regards me as the perpetrator, then you and Rodby both know Larry is going to honor a promise he made.  Surely this is all Rodby needs to put him behind bars.”  I knew Rodby could not have Larry ‘removed’ like he could once.

“It’s not that straightforward.  If we were to go in with what we know, it would burn our source, so for the time being Rodby wants you to play along, find out what he intends to do, and we’ll swoop in and round them all up.”

The man had enthusiasm, I’ll give him that, but no idea what might happen if it all went wrong; that there will be a lot of pain and suffering involved.  Larry was not a man to miss hitting the first time.

“All good intentions I’m sure, but both of you seem to forget I don’t work for him, or the government, anymore.”

“He never rescinded your file.  As far as anyone knows you’re still on the active list.  It’s just for a short time until we make all the connections.  Clearly, while the girl is courting you nothing is going to happen, and we’ll have eyes on all the major players.  All he’s asking is for you to play a role.”

It seemed to me my whole life had been one long screenplay.  And it was never that simple.

“If I say no?”

“Then I’m sure he’ll arrive on your doorstep and personally ask you to return the favor”

Yes, I’d expected that.  He may have agreed very reluctantly to my retirement, but it had always come with a caveat.

“Just this once then.”  There would be no getting around it.

“Of course.  I assume that we have permission to install eyes and ears here?”

An inconvenience, but necessary.  I nodded.  “But I am considering going to Paris, and then to New York.  She might ask to come with me.”

“Wouldn’t you simply stay put and make them come to you?  Besides, why would you take anyone actively assisting in a plan to kill you anywhere?”

Good point.  “Perhaps we’ll see what happens,  I have to get back home sometime.”

“Then give us the addresses and we’ll take care of the rest.  Oh, and the plane.  Just in case.”

I shook my head.  I guess I could say goodbye to privacy for the next few weeks.

…

© Charles Heath 2022

NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 14

Distractions, distractions…

You guessed it, the Maple Leafs are playing the New York Islanders, and it’s not going to be pretty.

It’s made worse by the fact that Chester has decided to barrack for the Islanders.

Turncoat!

But, it gives me an idea to dig myself out of a plot hole, and there’s more scribbling before I go to the master plan, now on the computer, and I can easily move things around.

I was writing yesterday, and somehow my mind took the story off on a tangent.

Sleeping on it, it led to another part, and then it will neatly fold back into the master plan later on. It’s a twist no one will see coming, simply because I didn’t, at first.

As of last night, my word count is sitting at 25,044 words, which is good and gives me a buffer in case I get a blockage of some sort.

Today’s word count looks like it will be about 1,400 words.

The Maple Leafs are 2 to 0 down, and I think I’ll change the channel to a repeat of Murdoch Mysteries.

All I have to do is get the channel changer out from under the cat.

Maybe not.

A to Z – April – 2026 – L

L is for – The last laugh

…

Sitting around the table in the lawyer’s conference room were seven very eager faces, and, at the other end, opposite Blanding, my parents’ lawyer.

It was time for the reading of the will.

The seven seated at the other end were, in age order, eldest to youngest: Jacob, John, Jesse, Julian, Judy, Jessica, and Jennifer.

Me, I was named Ferdinand.  Yes, that apparently was a name, but I usually used my middle name of Aloysius, or more often than not, the short form, Al.

There was a reason why I was sitting away from the others.  Technically, I was not a brother, but the only child of my stepfather’s brother, adopted by him after my parents died a year after I was born.

It had remained a well-kept secret until the day my stepmother, who died a few hours earlier than my stepfather, was conscious long enough to tell the eldest son of my adoption.

From that moment, I became persona non grata with nearly all the other siblings. It went from thirty-five years of harmonious sibling rivalry to me instantly becoming an outcast.  I don’t think it was what the mother had intended, but then she hadn’t realised just how greedy and insecure her children were.

I had, though it had taken time.  The two eldest boys thought I was different, not just the fact that my name didn’t start with a j, but the fact that I had red hair and that I had slightly different characteristics.

While the parents were alive, no one really questioned it.  After they died and there was a fortune at stake, it came down to being one less to divvy up the pot of gold.

But here’s the thing.  None but one, Jennifer and I stayed to look after them in their home when neither could look after each other or themselves.  The others left home as soon as they could and only came back for handouts to save them from their stupidity.

For them, the memories of what happened in that house were a stark reminder of everything they should have become.  They had been given every opportunity, but none seemed to like the idea of having to work for it.

Jennifer and I both got the intended message and understood.  I remember the number of times the father had said, if only the others had been like Al.  He made a point of it.  The others blamed me when the father started rejecting their demands for assistance, saying that I had made their lives impossible.  Nothing in that house, as far as they were concerned, had led anywhere for any of them except to catastrophe.

In turn, I never understood them.  From a very young age, they all believed they would be looked after, which is why work or tried to make their mark when, in the end, there would be a fortune waiting for each of them.

Or perhaps I did.  Their parents spoiled and indulged all of them.  Not me.  Perhaps that was the indication I should have seen that I was not really one of them.  The father never gave me anything, often telling me that he expected me to make something of myself, as his brother had.

I never understood what he had meant by that until the mother’s revelation.  Then everything made sense.

More than once, he had said, privately to me, that I was not one of them, that I did not have to be like them, that they, meaning the eldest two boys, would never amount to anything.

He was right.

But it was his fault they turned out that way.  His and their mother.

Now, a greater catastrophe was likely to befall them if the father had carried out his threat to cut them all off.

I was there when he told them they had six months to turn their lives around, during which time they would not be getting their usual allowances.

As far as he was concerned, it was time for all of them to sort themselves out.  His ultimatum had been met with stunned silence and disbelief.  I don’t think any of them had considered the well might run dry.

The fact that the parents died in an accident raised a few questions in my mind, so soon after the ultimatum, and the thought, however unbelievable or insidious, was whether one of them, or all of them together, had ‘arranged’ for their deaths.

Jennifer was more inclined to believe they had.  None had a story that would stand deeper probing. Each was vouching for the others, alibis were shaky, and as far as she was concerned, the police had closed the case too quickly.  As far as they were concerned, it was an accident.

I looked at Blanding and caught his eye.  He had his inscrutable face on.  It was time to begin

…

“Right,” he said after clearing his throat.  “Shall we start?”

He looked around the table at all the expectant faces.  No one could tell whether he was about to deliver good news or bad.  Even I didn’t know.

All I had was a phone call from the lawyer’s office, a request to be there. The others tried to have me excluded, but Blanding would have none of it.  He simply told them that the reading could only progress if all eight of us attended, an explicit condition stipulated by both parents.

The room went silent.

“Now that the investigation into the untimely deaths of your parents has been concluded and a result of death by misadventure recorded, the will can now be read.  It doesn’t necessarily mean that any benefits will automatically be payable at the conclusion of this reading.  There are formalities, and these will take time.”

Eldest son:  “How much time?”

“As long as it takes.”  That was it.  No more.  Blanding took the will document out of the folder in front of him and removed the first page.  The good stuff presumably started on the next.

The eldest son was going to ask another question, but then decided against it.  I got the impression he was kicked in the shin under the table.

Blanding continued.  “Your mother’s will has been read and wishes executed.  She died before your father, and her wish was for everything to go to her husband and several annuities for friends.  She never thought of her domestics as servants but friends.”

Eldest son:  “But she didn’t leave anything directly to any of us, not even the girls.”

“No.  Her intention was always to leave it to your father.  Had she, in fact, survived him, there was a small lump sum payment of approximately a thousand pounds each and the annuities.”

“What about the estate, the holiday houses, the apartments overseas?”

Yes, the eldest son had been doing his homework, listing all the places we went to, not realising that the property portfolio was largely smoke and mirrors.  I discovered the true nature of what they owned and what they rented, and it didn’t surprise me.

The father had been very clever to hide the fact that they were not as wealthy as most people believed, and having ready cash to give the children meant a gradual depletion of assets over time.

Being who they were didn’t mean they were filthy rich. The trick their father had told me once is to appear rich without anyone guessing what your true financial situation is.

Blanding put down the document and took off his glasses.  I thought he was going to massage his forehead like a person trying to assuage the pain of an oncoming headache.

Maybe he had one already.

He massaged the bridge of his nose. Maybe the glasses were new and weren’t sitting right.

Then he looked at Jacob.  “I’m sure you’ve been compiling a list of everything you believe should be in the estate.  Did you think to also compile a list of the sums of money you borrowed from your father?”

“Borrow?” Jacobs’s expression changed.  “We did nothing of the sort.  He gave us…”

He stopped abruptly when he heard, rather than watched, a thick folder land on the desk with a thud, perhaps more for effect than emphasis.

“Every time your father loaned each of you money, you had to sign a document to say that at the end of a specific period, you would either repay the loan in full or start paying the interest.  I daresay you didn’t read the fine print or look at or listen to anything but simply thought your father would never expect anything in return.  So, back to my original question, did you compile a list of all your borrowings?”

“Of course we didn’t.  Are you stupid?  The man is dead. There’s no one to pay it back to.”  John had the logic all worked out.

“Well, there’s the thing.  It became repayable when he died.  It’s stated very clearly in the documents, very legal documents, I might add.  But just for the sake of clarity, the aggregate sums borrowed by each child are: Jacob, 18 million, John, 9 million, Jesse, 6 million, Julian, 4 million, Judy, 15 million, Jessica, 7 million, Jennifer, zero, and Al, zero.  That’s close to 60 million pounds.  Where do you think that lot came from?”

The siblings were looking at each other, but mostly at Jacob and Judy.  I thought I heard a muttered, “What the hell did you do with 18 million, Jacob?”  If they asked me if would tell them.  Gambling.

“The old man was loaded.  Inherited wealth, he said.”

“I’m sure he said a lot of things to which you chose not to hear.  Giving you all you asked for over the years cost a lot, so much so, he was forced to sell all of the properties, including, in the end, the manor house.  There wasn’t much in the rest, the paintings of forebears were worthless, the furniture and fittings were all very old but not worth a fortune old. The manor house has been given to the new owner, who was gracious enough to allow your parents to remain in it rent-free until they decided to move on.  It was always going to revert back to him.  So, scratch any property off your list of assets.”

“Cash, shares, bonds?”  The confidence in the tone before had gone as the realisation of what had happen sunk on.

It wouldn’t be long before the others turned on Jacob and Judy, even though all of them together caused the problem.

“You know the answer to that question, Jacob,” I said

He turned to me.  I could feel the hostility.  “How come you didn’t get anything.  Bet he knew you weren’t one of us and was never going to give you a penny.”

Jennifer rounded on him.  “Like me, he didn’t seek to burden your father because staying home and looking after him, we knew exactly what the financial situation was.  You all should be ashamed of yourselves.”

Jacob jumped to his feet.  “If that’s all?”

“There is the matter of repayment of the loans.”

Jacob laughed.  “Good luck with that old man.”  Then he left.  The others quickly followed him out the door.

Blanding sighed.  “Well, that went better than I thought it would.”

Were you serious about the loans?” I asked.

“Your father was. We could take them all to court, but they don’t have anything, so it would be a meaningless exercise.  But at least they have no more opportunity to get anything more.  They have to make their own way now.  But, now for the rest of the will.”

“I thought all that was left was the three thousand odd pounds,” Jennifer said.

“After the sales of a few bonds, we found in the bottom drawer of your father’s desk.  No, that’s what your father left you two.  He was very glad you stayed to help.  Both of them were.  It was always his intention to leave the manor house to you, and the proceeds from the sale of a half dozen paintings that used to hang in the Paris apartment, about 40 million pounds.  He set up trust funds for the two of you, so you have somewhere to live, and enough to keep you going.”

“And if the others find out?”

“They can contest it, even get a slice of the proceeds, but the estate has first lien on the money in repayment of their debts, and the proceeds would barely cover the repayments.  No.  There’s no point, and no legal firm would take the case.  Now go and enjoy it.”

He put two sets of keys to the manor house on the table; the same two we’d given him when we arrived.

We shook his hand, and he left the room.  I may have been mistaken, but I think he had a smile on his face.  Jennifer was looking down the street, and I joined her.  Both of us saw the six other siblings exit onto the street, just as the heavens opened and dumped a heavy shower of rain on them.

“I think,” Jennifer said, “Mum and dad just got the last laugh.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026