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In a word: Incline

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then…

Are you inclined to go?

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

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

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

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

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Writing about writing a book – Day 2

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

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

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

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

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

Right now.

 

I pick up the pen.

 

Character number one:

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

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

He had a wife, which brings us to,

Character number two:

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

Character number three:

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

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

Character number four:

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

More on her later as the story unfolds.

So far so good.

What’s the plot?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pen in hand I begin to write.

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 154

Day 154 – A Writer’s Journey – Ian Fleming

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From Desk Jobs to Espionage: Why the “Accidental” Writer is More Common Than You Think

We often imagine the “Great Author” as someone born with an ink-stained soul—a tortured genius who spent their childhood reciting poetry and their adolescence crafting sprawling manuscripts in the glow of a candle.

But the history of literature tells a very different story. Take Ian Fleming, the creator of the world’s most iconic secret agent.

Before Fleming became a household name, he was a man desperately trying to outrun his own shadow. He cycled through jobs in journalism, merchant banking, and stockbroking, eventually landing in Naval Intelligence during World War II. It wasn’t until he retreated to his estate in Jamaica—suffering from a classic case of mid-life post-war boredom—that he sat down at a typewriter and hammered out Casino Royale.

Fleming didn’t start as a “writer.” He started as a man with a rich, complicated life who realised he had stories to tell.

As it turns out, Fleming isn’t an anomaly. In fact, he’s the archetype.

The “Portfolio Career” of the Author

If you look at the biographies of the world’s most beloved writers, you’ll find that very few of them spent their twenties in an MFA program. Instead, they were living.

  • Franz Kafka spent his days as an insurance clerk, navigating the crushing bureaucracy that would later inspire the bleak, surreal landscapes of The Trial.
  • Harper Lee worked as an airline ticket agent while struggling to write To Kill a Mockingbird.
  • Charles Bukowski ground out years at the post office, convinced that his life was a series of mundane failures until his prose finally caught fire.

For these writers, the “day job” wasn’t a distraction—it was the fuel. It provided the frustration, the observation, and the grit required to build a believable world.

Why Boredom and Disillusionment are Catalysts

Fleming’s transition from intelligence officer to novelist is a quintessential example of creative displacement. When you have spent your life in high-stakes, high-pressure environments—like intelligence work or banking—the sudden silence of civilian life can feel deafening.

Many writers emerge from this exact place:

  1. The Escape Hatch: Writing is often a way to reconcile with a past we can’t change. Fleming used the pages of Bond novels to process the shadowy, often morally grey world he had inhabited during the war.
  2. The Need to Orchestrate: People who have worked in rigid systems (like banking or the military) often turn to fiction because, for the first time, they are in total control. The author is the ultimate intelligence chief; they decide who lives, who dies, and how the plot unfolds.
  3. The “What If” Factor: Many accidental authors start writing because they are bored with reality. They find the world as it exists to lack adventure, mystery, or romance. Writing becomes the tool they use to build a version of the world that is, frankly, more interesting.

The “Ian Fleming Path” to Creativity

If you are currently sitting in a cubicle, working a job that feels worlds away from your creative ambitions, take heart. You aren’t “not a writer” because you aren’t currently writing. You are, like Fleming, building your archive.

You are observing office politics, understanding the nuances of human manipulation, learning how systems break, and experiencing the distinct, soul-sucking weight of boredom. These are not wasted years. These are the bricks you will use to build your own “Casino Royale.”

Many of the best writers in history didn’t start by chasing the dream of being an author. They started by living through enough reality that they eventually had to write it down to make sense of it.

So, if you’re looking for a sign to start that manuscript, look at Fleming in Jamaica. He didn’t wait for inspiration to strike; he waited until he was bored enough, experienced enough, and ready enough to translate his life into a legend.

Your day job is not a detour. It’s the prologue.

…

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

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 45

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

 

We flew north at low altitude, crossing the border into the Sudan, then ran along the border, heading back to the landing field we’d arrived on in Uganda.

It was basically a two-hour flight that in the end was eventless.  After everything that had happened over the past 24 hours, it wasn’t hard to doze off, leaving Davies to get us back.

I was woken suddenly by a thump on my arm.

“Need your help landing this crate,” a squeaky voice in my ear said.

I could feel the plane losing altitude, and the engines not making the same noise as they had just before I’d dropped off to sleep.  It seemed like it was only a few minutes ago we were taking off.

She leveled the plane at 1000 feet, and flew over the airfield, the landing lights on, and I could see the strip from start to end.  It looked a lot longer than the one we’d taken off from.

Turning sharply, I could hear the landing gear being activated and saw green lights come on one the dashboard.  Down and locked I assumed.

She then went through a series of landing checks and told me what she wanted me to do to assists, and then everything seemingly OK, we came in to land.

This landing was a lot bumpier than that in the C130 earlier, but she got us there, throttled back, and slowed the speed before heading for the terminal buildings.

Once there, she let the engines run for about a minute or so before switching them off.

Once the propellers stopped turning, the silence in the cockpit was strange.  At the rear, the door was opened, and everyone was getting off, the Colonel first to make sure none of his men shot anyone by mistake, and then the rest of the team.

Davies and I were the last to leave.  I got the impression she would have stayed, just a little longer, and it was telling that she patted the dashboard in what I would call a loving manner, thanking the aircraft for its service.

“I can see you like flying these old planes,” I said, still seated and taking in the moment.

“There’s something about them.  You have to fly them, they don’t fly you, not like the F15’s or any of those other jets that have autopilots.  No, this comes from the days of real flying.”

“You said your Dad has one?”

“Yep.”

“Then the art of flying is not lost on you.  Perhaps one day when I get lost, somewhere where this plane lives, you can take me up.”

“Any time.”

She dragged herself out of the left seat and headed towards the rear of the plane.  I took a moment longer, then followed her.

Maybe she could teach me how to fly.

Or maybe not.

I keep forgetting I hate flying in planes.

As I stepped off the plane onto terra firma again, I could see just inside the range of my peripheral vision, some activity by the terminal building.

Suddenly, a man was running towards us.  He was also yelling out, words to the effect, ‘they’re coming’.

Who?

The Colonel looked up just as the man, almost hunched over out of breath, reached him.

“They’re coming.  A helicopter, heading towards us.”  Several more huge breaths, then, “An hour at best.”  He looked at me.  “You have to go.”

Then he handed the Colonel a sheet of paper, and he quickly scanned it.

Then he said, “Your friendly militia decided the ransom wasn’t enough and they’re coming to take them back.”

“How is that possible?  Can they just cross borders like that?”

“This is Africa.  Anything can happen.  By the time their mission is done, it’ll be too late for us to scramble anything to attack them.  You need to go.”

Davies had come back, assuming it had something to do with the plane, and after taking in what the Colonel had to say, said, “We need more fuel.  Not much, but it’ll take time.”

The fuel truck had already come out and begun the refueling.

“Go tell the driver how much you need.  You’ve probably got a half-hour, a little more before you take off and go before, they get here.”

She headed towards the fuel truck, muttering under her breath.

I yelled out to Monroe, “Round up everyone and get them back on the plane.  Wheels up in half an hour.”

I could see her mouth the word why.

“Seems we’re about to get a visit from some very unfriendly people.”

Enough said.

 

© Charles Heath 2020

“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 that 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 several small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, point to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.

Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints at 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 discovers piece by piece, damning evidence that 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 are 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 ended in Sorrento – Episode 67

Rescue, but why?

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I always had a sneaking suspicion that Benito the solicitor was playing both sides of the fence.  He knew the countess was never going to see a Lira, or was it a Euro of the inheritance so he devised another plan.

He of all people would know the countess had a twin so what could be harder, knowing the countess’s movements to have her kidnapped and substitute her with her twin.

He would know of Dicostini’s desire to purchase the estate, so get it in the hands of the fake countess, sell it to Dicostini and make commissions on an exponential number of transactions.  When the counties had no further ruse, kill the real one, leave the fake one in place, somewhere preferably a long way away, and relax in the expensive apartment with the expensive wife.

The trouble is foolproof plans are never foolproof when fools are involved.  Dicostini was a bad-tempered impatient fool, the fake countess was an impatient and understudied fool who would fool no one who mattered, and fools of kidnappers managed to pick up an extra body.

At least there was a financial payoff waiting there to correct a wrong that shouldn’t have happened, but an opportunity to make a profit.  Especially when the rest of the scam went west.  This was going to be the only profit he would make, or so she thought.

Roma Termini, track 15, at the peak hour when there would be a lot of foot traffic in the corridor.  I got there early with Giulietta, when he called with the details, I told him her attendance was non-negotiable because I had to make sure no one stole the money.  I knew it wouldn’t be a deal breaker because just as I arrived, Anthony sent me a balance sheet of Benito’s financial affairs and he was awash with debt.

A young beautiful wife was very, very expensive.  Giulietta said she would never be that expensive, but I was not sure why.  I said she was not young and beautiful, and she hit me, quite hard.  I probably deserved that.

But it was the cue for Benito to make himself known, saying that he was acting as an agent for the real kidnappers because they knew he was the countess’s solicitor and there would be consequences if he didn’t.

There were going to be consequences one way or another.

My first question.  “Where is Mrs Rodby so I can verify she is alive and well.”

He was smart.  He had a cell phone and a link to a camera where she was sitting on a chair in a cell holding a piece of paper that had today’s date on it.  It was like a scene from a bad movie.

“And where is this cell?”

“Nearby.  I get the money and get away, and you get the address.”

“No.  It doesn’t work like that.  I said I needed to see her in person.  You take me there, open the door, I give you the money, and then you can leave.”

There were a dozen scenarios I’m sure he worked out that I would try, all of which demanded two-way trust.  He was a liar, and having dealt with lowlifes, I’m sure he knew all the dirty tricks in the book.  I didn’t bother countering the next scenario he was offering, the same as the last, just with fancier window dressing. I went for the jugular.  Giulietta dialled the number for his apartment, and Cecelia answered.

I asked him to look at my feed.  It was better than his.  It was his wife’s meltdown over the fact that she had a silenced gun to her head, and also one of his children.  Both were terrified.

“Pick one.”

“What do you mean?”  He was starting to get the idea.  This exchange was not going to work.

“Pick the first one to die when I count to ten, and you haven’t accepted my counteroffer.”

“You haven’t told me your counteroffer.”

“True.  We had to get the threats out of the way first.  How about you take me to the cell, open the door, take a reasonable payout, I’ll release your family, and you can go away and talk about your failings as a husband and a father.”

He looked at the screen, at me, and then I started counting down to one.  He caved at four.

Benito got a hundred thousand Euros for his trouble.

Cecelia told me she didn’t like the idea of threatening his wife and children unless they were thoroughly bad, which Mrs Benito and the children were not.

Giulietta said that if this was the depths I sank to, she didn’t think I was worth knowing, an assessment of hers I could agree with, mainly because of the distress it caused Benito.

It didn’t matter to her that he was party to a kidnapping and, by proxy, to a murder.  I hadn’t read about a suspicious death at the Dicostini house, so I wondered if Benito had it sent under the carpet.

Mrs Rodby was argumentative and belligerent when we rescued her. In her mind, it was one lot of thugs replacing the other thugs until I got Rodby on the phone, and he spoke to her.  I was not surprised to discover he was almost in Sorrento.

It didn’t help her demeanour or attitude, so I told her she could find her own way home and left her with a burner phone with Rodby’s number outside the building where she had been locked up for weeks.  It was five minutes before my phone rang, and she apologised.

I almost didn’t go back.

…

© Charles Heath 2023

The 2am Rant: Children are all the same

They just live in different houses

…

It’s quite remarkable to discover that your children are not unique.

For years, I thought that we had spawned monsters that had quite likely come from another planet because the other children in the family seemed so different.

I didn’t realise that the parents had issued death threats if they so much as looked sideways while out.

It was where I suddenly realised that parents of children, if taken at their word, could be mass murderers, or at the very best, the worst kind of bullies.

The threats of violence that they used, in any other circumstances, would elicit a rather lengthy jail sentence.

I was guilty of it myself, and such threats had come to roll off the tongue so easily that you didn’t really know you were doing it.

If you don’t do this, I’ll kill you. There’s no thought to the significance of this statement or the consequences if you were to actually do it.

No wonder the children just look at you like you’re deranged.

Of course, there are fewer murderous ways of dealing with the problem, but the sad fact is they have probably driven you into a blind rage and just past into that zone where you really have no idea what you’re saying.

Been there too.

But the revelation that all the other parents are the same, that you see them threatening their children with death or worse.

Then, after they’ve grown up and moved on as all children do, they return on odd occasions for Sunday lunch, and there you begin to learn the stuff they did when they were younger that you never knew about

It seems a rite of passage for all children, and it’s odd to hear others discussing it, especially when you hear someone else referring to their children the same way you do.

Did they come from the same planet, too?

That’s when a friend told me the truth of the matter. All children are the same; they just live in different houses.

Ain’t that the truth!

What I learned about writing – Turning your real-life experiences into a story, and then with a great deal of luck, into a legendary film.

From Your Life to the Legendary Silver Screen: The Audacious Quest for Cinematic Immortality

We’ve all seen them – those incredible films that resonate deep within our souls, stories so potent and true, you just know they must have sprung from the messy, magnificent wellspring of real life. Think “Schindler’s List,” “127 Hours,” “The Pursuit of Happyness,” “Erin Brockovich.” These aren’t just great movies; they’re cultural touchstones, etched into our collective consciousness.

And who hasn’t, at some point, looked at a pivotal moment in their own life – a harrowing challenge, an unlikely triumph, a profound transformation – and thought, “Now that would make an amazing movie.”

The leap from your personal experience to a legendary film is, let’s be honest, vast. It’s akin to catching lightning in a bottle, then harnessing its power to illuminate the world. It requires a potent blend of authenticity, craft, perseverance, and indeed, a great deal of luck. But understanding the steps, the possible path, can turn a fleeting thought into a focused ambition.

Here’s how one might embark on this audacious, often miraculous, journey:

Step 1: Harvesting Your Truth – The Origin Story

Before you even think about a script, you must dive deep into your own experience. This isn’t just recounting events; it’s excavating the emotional core.

  • Identify the Core Conflict & Transformation: What was the central struggle? Who were you before, and who did you become after? Legendary stories thrive on profound change.
  • Pinpoint the Universal: While your experience is unique, what universal themes does it touch upon? Love, loss, injustice, courage, resilience, redemption? These are the hooks that connect your singular story to a global audience.
  • Embrace Authenticity, Not Just Facts: Don’t be afraid to explore the messy, uncomfortable, or unsung aspects. Truth, in its rawest form, is compelling.
  • The “Why Now?”: Why is this story important right now? What message does it carry for contemporary society?

This isn’t just memory; it’s meaningful introspection.

Step 2: Crafting the Narrative – From Raw Emotion to Gripping Story

Your life isn’t a film script; it’s a sprawling, unedited saga. The next crucial step is to shape that reality into a compelling narrative arc.

  • Outline the Narrative Beats: Think like a storyteller. What’s the inciting incident? The rising action? The climax? The falling action? The resolution? Even if it didn’t happen perfectly in real life, you need to find this structure.
  • Identify Your Protagonist (You, or an Alter-Ego): What are their desires, flaws, strengths? How do they drive the story forward?
  • Build Your Supporting Cast: Who are the key players in your life’s drama? What roles do they play in your journey?
  • Write It Down (Seriously, Write It): Start as a memoir, a detailed story, or even a treatment. Get the essence of the story, its characters, and its emotional journey down on paper in prose form. This is your foundation.

This is where “storytelling” begins its magic, often requiring you to condense, combine, or even slightly fictionalise elements to serve the larger truth.

Step 3: Translating to the Screen – The Art of the Screenplay

This is where the specialised craft truly begins. A screenplay is a blueprint, a visual language.

  • Learn Screenwriting Fundamentals: Read screenplays of films you admire. Understand structure (three-act, sequences), formatting, dialogue, and “show, don’t tell.”
  • Visualise Everything: How does your story look on screen? What are the key images, sounds, and moments that convey emotion without dialogue?
  • Find Your Voice: Even with technical rules, your unique perspective should shine through.
  • Consider Collaboration: Unless you are an experienced screenwriter, you might need to find a professional screenwriter who can adapt your story into a compelling script. This often means selling them the rights to your life story, or collaborating closely. Be prepared for changes – the film version won’t be a literal transcription of your life.

This stage transforms your story from a personal account into a potential cinematic experience.

Step 4: The Industry Gauntlet – Pitching, Persistence, and People

Even a brilliant script needs to find its way into the right hands. This is where the “luck” factor amplifies, but you can certainly increase your odds.

  • Seek Feedback & Refine: Share your script with trusted readers, writers’ groups, or professional consultants. Be open to critique and revise, revise, revise.
  • Build Your Network: Attend film festivals, writing conferences, and industry events. Connect with other emerging writers, producers, and directors.
  • Enter Contests & Fellowships: Prestigious screenwriting competitions (like The Nicholl Fellowships, Austin Film Festival) can open doors and get your script noticed by agents and producers.
  • Find Representation: A literary agent or manager can be crucial for getting your script read by studios and production companies. This often requires a strong script and some initial buzz.
  • The Pitch: Be ready to articulate your story’s essence, its universal appeal, and its marketability in a concise, compelling way.

This phase is a marathon of networking, rejection, and the occasional glimmer of hope.

Step 5: The Alchemy of Production – From Script to Silver Screen

If your script catches fire, it enters the labyrinthine world of development and production.

  • Optioning & Development Deals: A production company or studio might “option” your script, buying the exclusive right to develop it for a period. This is where the project gets a producer, perhaps a director attached, and financing is sought.
  • Creative Evolution (and Compromise): Be prepared for your story to be shaped by many hands – directors, actors, studio executives. Your initial vision might evolve significantly. This is a collaborative art form.
  • Casting the Dream: The right cast can elevate a good story to greatness, bringing characters to life in unexpected ways.
  • Filming & Post-Production: The arduous process of shooting, editing, scoring, and visual effects comes next.

This is where your story truly transforms, gaining flesh, blood, and a voice beyond your own.

Step 6: The Spark of Legend – Beyond Your Control

Achieving “legendary” status is the ultimate, and most unpredictable, outcome.

  • Critical Acclaim & Audience Resonance: A film needs to connect deeply with both critics and audiences, earning rave reviews and robust box office (though not always).
  • Cultural Impact: Does the film spark conversations? Does it influence other art? Does it stand the test of time, becoming a reference point for future generations?
  • The Right Moment: Sometimes, a story simply arrives at the perfect cultural moment, addressing unspoken needs or reflecting pressing issues. This is pure serendipity.
  • Awards & Recognition: While not the sole arbiter of “legendary,” major awards (Oscars, Golden Globes) certainly amplify a film’s reach and cemented its place in history.

This is the realm of magic, where your personal truth, skillfully told, transcends entertainment and becomes a lasting cultural artifact.

The path from your unique life experience to a legendary film is steep, winding, and littered with “almosts.” Many incredible stories remain untold, or stop short of the silver screen. But the very act of distilling your truth, crafting it into a compelling narrative, and daring to share it with the world is a profound journey in itself.

So, listen to the whisper of your own story. What profound truth is waiting to be unearthed? What cinematic masterpiece might be hiding within the chapters of your life? The first step, always, is simply to begin.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 153

Day 153 – Writing Exercise

…

I was lying in a hospital bed staring at the ceiling, after being told that morning that a few seconds either way of me getting to the hospital could have been a matter of life and death.

No visitors for two days, and a very laborious interview with the police where I was practically browbeaten into making a confession, of stuff I hadn’t done, and through mistaken identity..

They were determined to make me the scapegoat.  Now, looking at my brother who had made a special trip to see me, I was annoyed.

He should have been the one who was attacked. 

And all because I borrowed his car?

It seemed to me he was oblivious, or pretending to be obvious, to the fact that it should have been him and not me, but something told me I was never going to get him to admit that he was the one they wanted to hurt, not me. 

And this was not the first time it had happened.

“I think you know I was not the target,” I said, “and definitely not the one who committed any of the crimes I’m being accused of.  The mere fact that we are almost alike is a very telling factor.”

We were not twins but the year apart in age did little to tell us apart, even from quite close.  Cerise, his wife, had taken years before she could accurately tell us apart.

“You were running their distributional network,” he said.  “That had nothing to do with me.”

“I did what I was told, believing that what I was doing was at the behest of the company, and I would believe that was the case if I were in my own car, not yours.”

He was clutching at straws.  I had only told him a few days ago that the people I worked for were the McKenzies, people who were direct competitors.  It hadn’t gone down well.

It was when I realised I was being set up.  It might have explained what happened, but it came back to the car, and why he had asked me to take it from a downtown car park to his house.

“The bottom line is that they targeted the car and then hesitated before they tried to beat me to death.  I was not who they were looking for.”

He shrugged.  “Unless the police catch them, we’ll never know for sure.  I’ll get some people to investigate and arrange for some protection.  You’ll survive.”

I almost laughed at that.  I’ll survive.  Not if they came after me again.

“Thanks for nothing.”

Another minute, and he left.  I was surprised he’d stayed as long as he had.  It reflected the disdain he held for me and my choices when, a dozen years back, I refused to join the family firm.

Perhaps it was the people who turned up at all hours of the night and say, people who were not the sort of customers general merchants dealt with, not out of a shed at the back of the house, or an old factory turned into a warehouse.

My father was consolidating his criminal empire.  I discovered that when he was shot at the warehouse and died in the hospital three days later.  The shooter was never identified, despite the description I’d given to the police.  My brother refused to back me up.

He had no doubt done a deal not to shop them in return for them leaving us alone.  It was never going to hold.  But I left the business the day after my father died and got a legitimate job.

Or so I thought.

I guess that criminals and the kids of criminals never quite escape the stigma.  I got what I thought was a legitimate job, only to discover it was a rival organisation trying to muscle its way into my brother’s territory.

He didn’t know, not exactly, and I didn’t know until recently, and if there was a silver lining, this bashing had given me the perfect excuse to walk away.

That being the case, I had no job, I was nearly dead, and I had nowhere to go. I was not going to join the family firm.  Robert could have it all to himself.  If anything, I wanted revenge and to make the McKenzies pay.  If they were the attackers.

…

The room was empty and quiet.  The TV was on mute, running some game show that dealt with words and phrases.  It seemed pointless.

It was when Detective Chief Inspector Ramsen came in and closed the door behind her.  Years ago, when she was a Detective Sergeant, she had been the one to tell me the organisation that was behind my father’s death, just not who did it.

Perhaps she knew I would kill them if I found out.  The fact that I was the son of an alleged murderer did little to assuage her opinion.

She sat in the chair next to the bed.

“I hear your brother came to visit.”

She never said hello, nor asked how I felt.  Just sent the interrogators. 

“He was very sympathetic.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you.”

“Nor does fake sympathy from a heartless bitch.”

Her expression hardened.  “Someone got out of bed on the wrong side this morning.”

She frowned.  I had called her worse.  She liked the idea that people thought she was as hard as any man in her station house.

“I wasn’t the target, and I am not part of my brother’s organisation.  He won’t admit it, but it was him they were after.”

“Perhaps, but you were working for the McKenzies.  They might have assumed you were a spy.  That could explain this attack.”

“I didn’t know that until last week.  You might want to tell that interrogation team that I was in his car.  Whoever sent the thugs made a mistake.”

She shook her head.  “They would have been watching you.  The car is irrelevant.”

“So, it’s the old adage, dead men tell no lies, or the truth.  I’m very lucky to be here.”

“Are you going back to the McKenzie’s?”

“No.  If old man McKenzie was the one who sent in the thug squad, simply because he doubted my loyalty, then what’s the point?”

“So, that means you’re in no man’s land.  Perhaps with no allegiance to anyone, you could help us.”

“I’m not going back.”

“You could end up in jail.”

“Good.  I’ll take my chances.”

“They’d be slim to none.”

“Better than going back into a nest of vipers.  Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Suit yourself.”

…

When everything goes wrong, you find out just who your friends are.

I didn’t have many, and those I thought I had were more acquaintances than friends.  We spoke, we had coffee, sometimes a drink after work, but that was it.

One thing I knew better than most was to never discuss business or your job in a workplace that thrived on secrecy, real or imaginary.

After all, when I first started, there were constant reminders not to discuss anything that happened with anyone inside and especially outside the company.

Now I knew why.

But, here’s the thing.  I didn’t talk to anyone when I discovered the true nature of the business.  I was simply shocked at the discoveries I made, but I kept them to myself.  That’s why it was impossible to believe they sent people after me.

It was also odd that they hadn’t sent someone to see me yet, though it was plausible they didn’t know.  The fact I hadn’t turned up for work, or called in as unavailable of course, would set off alarm bells,  and the last person who did that caused havoc.

Except if I knew the Chief Inspector, she would have turned up on their doorstep first thing for her version of a short chat, so the odds were they were still trying to figure out what to do.

Old Man McKenzie, one of the four Mackenzies in management, was by far the nastiest of the group.  I rumbled the fact that the legitimate business was acting as a front, that a well-trained group that kept the separation, and one of the four slipped once.  A step so slight had I blinked I would have missed it

Though it could be said that being brought up in a crime family should have made me very aware of what was really going on, it didn’t.  I was kept at arm’s length at home for a long time, and only introduced gradually once I was old enough.

But what I saw, I didn’t like. 

When my father was murdered because of warring families that had once worked together in harmony, I left home and left the business, not that I had spent much time working for it.

What happened after that was a matter of reflection, and disappointment.  I had been naive if I ever thought I could escape.  Perhaps had I moved to the other side of the country, or overseas, maybe, but I didn’t go far, just across town.

I went to an employment agency, filled out all the forms and was surprised when they found me a job, not far from where I was living at the time.

The people were friendly but not too friendly.  I was given on-the-job training, couriers work delivering parcels.  I thought it was like working for FedEx.  Over time, I rose to be a distribution manager, and then was in charge of a whole division.

And like I said, I would have been none the wiser if one of the drivers hadn’t made a fundamental error, delivering a parcel to the wrong address.  A report had been left on my desk, in my absence.  I came back, looked at it, checked the delivery against the orders and shipping dockets, noticing there were products on the delivery dockets not on the order.  Then I realised it was not my distribution centre but one of the other three; they were just dovetailing their deliveries in my vans.

A report not for me to action, I put it back where I found it, and went out to lunch, and when I came back, it was gone.  Later that night, I checked the orders and delivery dockets for the day, and at least forty of the customers got the same product.  The product?  Sugar cubes.

Then I checked the customers and found they were on a secondary distribution list, with about four or five hundred others.  Names, not businesses.  Runs every two weeks.  A bit more digging, quietly, I found what the product was.

None of my business.

Of course, even that wouldn’t have mattered, had it not been the one person I would never have believed to have any criminal intent. 

…

I must have drifted off into an uneasy sleep, something I thought would be impossible given the number and off times the nurses came to check what they called ‘vitals’.

Being annoyed so many times must raise anyone’s blood pressure.  I know mine was up.

When I woke, it was not a nurse, but someone dropping into the visitor chair.  Someone who wore a fragrant scent.

I opened my eyes.  And blinked.

Scarlet McKenzie.

Most of the people in that company were scared of her.  She had a temper and could make a grown man wither before her.

I spent most of my time avoiding her.

“Chris.”

“Scarlet.”  I decided to use her first name, which was a risk.  It didn’t matter; I wasn’t going back.

She scowled, but let it pass.

“You’re not at work.”

Was it a statement or was it something else?

“For obvious reasons.”

“What happened?”

“I thought that was obvious, too.  Are you here to finish the job?”

She looked surprised. “What job?  You think I had something to do with it?”

It was hard to tell whether she was utterly shocked or a darned good actress.

“I was attacked in my brother’s car by a McKenzie hit team.”

“And your brother…” A strange look came over her face.  “.. is Callum Waterson.”

“I used to be Christopher Waterson.  I left home after your people killed my father.  When I joined the firm, it wasn’t owned by the McKenzies, that came later.  I knew who you were; I simply expected you would continue to keep a legitimate company.  I thought you were the straight man running it.”

“I am.  And it is legitimate.  I made it very clear I wanted nothing to do with their business.”

“You just supplement the drivers deliveries.  It’s brilliant by the way.”

“I’m not in charge of that side of things, and I wasn’t impressed when I discovered what they were doing.”

“You didn’t deny setting the dogs on my brother.”

“That wasn’t me, and believe me, if I had a seat at the table at would not have happened.  But then, if I put two and two together, I would bet on the fact that it was Bennie making a move on the leadership.  My father’s retiring, and stupidly made it a contest between Bennie and Reggie.  Only Reggie could come up with a hair-brained scheme like trying to assassinate your brother.”

She shook her head.  “And only Reggie could get it so spectacularly wrong.  I’m sorry.”

In that moment, I think I could see the dilemma I had in her expression, that spot between the proverbial rock and a hard place.  And dare I say it, I felt sorry for her.

“If it’s any consolation, I know how you feel.”

She gave me a strange look, one that I couldn’t interpret. 

“Are you coming back?”

“No.  It would be rather awkward facing up to the people who ordered a hit on your brother, made a mistake and tried to kill me instead.  I don’t really care what went on there. I’m done with it.  When I get out of this place, I’m disappearing for good.”

“Where?”

“It wouldn’t be an ambush if I told you.”

“And if I came with you?”

“We’d disappear together.  But I would get your hopes up thinking it would be the life you’re accustomed to.”

“You’d be surprised to learn what I could become accustomed to.  Make plans for two, and I’ll call you.  I’ll sort out your absence at work.”

She smiled, more of a grimace than amusement, then left.  I wondered for a moment how a girl with an outfit worth more than my car was going to disappear without leaving a trail of cash payments or credit card records in her wake.

Never going to happen.

…

Nevertheless, as the weeks passed and the physios got me back on my feet, albeit awkwardly at first, when I was discharged from the hospital, I could walk again, after a fashion.

My brother had visited me once to tell me that he knew who had attacked me, and realised it was him they were after.

He was surprised to learn anyone cared that much.  It surprised me that he was a leader of a crime family, because it usually meant he had to be ruthless.

What I didn’t know was that he had been transitioning the crime proceeds to funding legitimate businesses, and that was making more than the crime was with less risks

And cleaning up the vulnerable youths by taking them off the streets and giving them something to do.  Perhaps he was a target because he was reducing the McKenzie’s customer pool.

I asked him what he was going to do, and he said nothing.  What would be the point?  He did say that he had passed on the message that if anything happened to me, there would be repercussions.  As for Reggie, he intimated that he wasn’t the smartest one in that family and would never take over from his father.

I went home, such as it was, and spent a few days staring at the walls.  I’d told Callam that I was going away, overseas on a slow boat, and probably wouldn’t be coming back.

It didn’t seem to bother him.  I was always what he called a lost cause.

I found the slow boat, what might have been called in days gone by a tramp steamer, but in reality a cargo ship with a few passenger cabins.  It was heading to Florida, as good a place as any to start an odyssey.

What I wanted, rather than needed, fitted into a small battered suitcase.  Then I sent a cryptic message to Scarlett’s cell phone, and decided if she didn’t call, I was going anyway.  I had never quite believed she would just up and leave.

Her family probably wouldn’t let her.

I found my way to the ship, did the customary immigration checks and cleared to board the boat.  I waited an hour, and she didn’t show.  I was not surprised. 

The steward gave me the tour of the ship’s facilities, which were first class, as to be expected considering how much the tickets cost, and then delivered me to the suite. 

He opened the door, I went in, and he closed it behind me.  I leaned against the door and took it in.  It was a surprise even after seeing photos of it.

“You took your time.”

A female voice came from another room, and then she appeared.

Scarlet.

“You came?”

“Would I ask you to get me a ticket if I wasn’t coming?”

“I didn’t hear anything from you.”

“I didn’t want them to find out.  They think I’m visiting an aunt up country.  They’re never going to change.  And I don’t want anything to do with their criminal activities.”

“And you don’t mind being with me?”

She smiled.  “I’ve kept my eye on you.  You get on with the job, you don’t try to big note yourself, you handle people with respect and care.  I know you like me, because every now and then, I see you, calculating the odds of whether or not I would say yes to an invitation to coffee or lunch.  I would have said yes, you know.  I don’t bite.  Well, maybe sometimes, but I believe your company will be exactly what I need.”  She looked around.  “I love the boat.”  She held out her hand.  “Come.  I’ll show you the suite.  Do you know how nice this was going to be?”

“I had photographs.”

“It’s better than that.  And a balcony.  Sea air, hazy afternoons, reading or just sleeping…”

“Or we’ll get tangled up in an Atlantic storm.”

“Hush, you’re denting the romantic feeling that’s running through me.”

I took her hand and felt a shiver go through her.  It was most likely the aftereffect of the notion she had escaped.  It would wear off once the reality set in, but perhaps I should try being in the moment too, as she gently pulled me in the direction of the bedroom.

There was only one bed.

“So.  Sleeping arrangements,” she said.  “I like the left-hand side, I do not like people who snore, and, well, you’ll find out soon enough.  There’s enough room for four, so it’s not like we’ll run into each other.”

Her enthusiasm was infectious.  I wondered how I could have contemplated doing this on my own.  For years, I had denied myself the pleasure of company, given the family I had and the world I was in.  I had given the idea of finding a nice girl and dating, but it only got as far as Scarlet.  I had no idea how she would respond, so I didn’t bother.

And if I were truthful, given who she was and who I was, it would never have got to first base.  It never occurred to me that she was in exactly the same boat as i was.

Perhaps I should just let it flow and see where it takes us.

I relaxed.  “Have you been put on the balcony?”

“Of course.  Come.  You’re going to love it.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Venice

The Unbeaten Path: 5 Hidden Treasures in Venice (That Aren’t St. Mark’s)

Venice. The name alone conjures images of shimmering canals, graceful gondolas, and the architectural masterpiece that is the Doge’s Palace. It is, undeniably, one of the most beautiful cities on earth.

But let’s be honest: the magic can quickly evaporate when you’re battling a thousand other tourists just to get a photo of the Rialto Bridge.

The true, deep magic of Venice—the one that smells of salt-laced air and centuries of history—isn’t found on the main tourist arteries. It’s found in the quiet, echoing calle (streets) and the forgotten, sun-drenched squares of the districts that rarely make the postcard racks.

If you’re ready to trade the packed piazza for unique local discoveries, ditch the map of the standard tourist loop. Here are five essential, off-the-beaten-path things to do in Venice that will give you a taste of the city’s authentic heart.

1. Swap Grand Palaces for the Cemetery Island: Isola di San Michele

While most visitors focus on Murano or Burano, the island of San Michele offers a profound and beautiful experience few tourists seek out. This is the official cemetery island of Venice, and it offers a silence and solitude that is impossible to find on the main islands.

A short vaporetto ride (Line 4.1 or 4.2) across the lagoon transports you to a walled sanctuary where cypress trees stand sentinel over generations of Venetians, including famous residents like Igor Stravinsky and Ezra Pound.

Why it’s worth the detour: The stunning, stark beauty of the Renaissance Chiesa di San Michele in Isola, combined with the meticulously maintained gardens and marble tombs, offers a reflective pause in your itinerary. It truly feels like stepping into a different world—one without shops, crowds, or noise. It’s a poignant reminder of the ebb and flow of Venetian life.

2. Embrace the Bacaro Trail in Dorsoduro

If you want to eat and drink like a Venetian, you must embrace the bacaro culture. A bacaro is a traditional, often hole-in-the-wall Venetian bar specializing in cicchetti (small, tapas-style snacks) and ombra (a small glass of local wine).

While you can find bacari near the main spots, the Dorsoduro district, particularly near Ca’ Foscari University, is where the scene is truly vibrant and local. This area is filled with students and residents, not tour groups.

How to do it right: Forget sitting down for a lengthy, expensive dinner. Between 5 PM and 7 PM, join the locals and hop between a few chosen spots, ordering a couple of cicchetti (perhaps salted cod, polpetta, or marinated artichokes) and an ombra at each.

  • Try: Cantinone Già Schiavi (famous for its wine selection) or Al Squero (offering fantastic views across the canal to the boatyard where gondolas are repaired).

3. Seek Out the Hidden Staircase: Scala Contarini del Bovolo

In a city known for its bridges and canals, architecture often takes a supporting role. However, if you are drawn to hidden architectural gems, the Scala Contarini del Bovolo is a must-see.

Tucked away in a tiny, almost impossible-to-find courtyard near the Rialto, the Palazzo Contarini del Bovolo features an extraordinary exterior spiral staircase. Known as the “staircase of the snail” (bovolo), this Renaissance masterpiece combines Gothic and Byzantine elements, curling up five stories to an open loggia.

The payoff: Climbing the staircase is an adventure in itself, but the true reward is the panoramic view from the top. You get a unique, intimate perspective of Venice’s terracotta rooftops and bell towers without the claustrophobic crowds of St. Mark’s Campanile. Finding it is half the fun—put the address into your phone and be prepared to wander down several dead-end alleys.

4. Explore the Authentic Heart of Cannaregio and the Ghetto

To experience genuine Venetian daily life—the sight of laundry dangling over canals, residents chatting in dialect, and non-chain grocery stores—head north to the Cannaregio district.

This area, which stretches toward the Mestre train station, is largely residential and offers excellent, affordable dining options. More importantly, it is home to the Ghetto Nuovo, the world’s first Jewish Ghetto, established in 1516.

Why it’s special: The Ghetto Nuovo is a place of powerful history and resilient culture. Due to space constraints imposed by the Republic, the buildings here are some of the tallest in Venice, stacked upon medieval foundations. Walk through the quiet central square, observe the five historic synagogues (many offer guided tours), and soak up the unique atmosphere. It’s a perfect way to step back into a complex, vital layer of Venetian history often overlooked by visitors rushing to the main sites.

5. Capture the Pastel Hues of Burano (But Go Early)

Yes, Burano is often listed on the main island tours, but most visitors arrive mid-day when the ferry lines are long, and the narrow canals are choked with people attempting the perfect photograph. To truly experience the magic of the famous rainbow-colored island, you must commit to the early start.

The secret timing: Take one of the first vaporetti out to Burano (via Murano and Torcello). Arriving just as the golden morning light hits the facades allows you to wander the lanes in near solitude. The local fishermen and lace makers are just beginning their day, and the lack of crowds amplifies the whimsical, fairy-tale quality of the architecture.

Tip: Since the island is famous for lacemaking, skip the mass-produced trinkets and seek out a small workshop where you can see the intricate craft being actively practiced.

Don’t Just Visit Venice—Live It

To travel the road less travelled in Venice isn’t about ticking off lesser-known sights; it’s about slow travel. It’s about getting lost, turning down the alley that looks too narrow, and replacing the tourist map with genuine curiosity.

When you allow yourself to wander away from the golden routes, you stop being a hurried observer and start becoming a temporary resident. The Venice you discover in these quiet pockets is richer, deeper, and far more rewarding.

In a word: Anonymous

Which is how I feel sometimes.

It can be a paradox in that an ordinary man may strive to be recognised, that is, to rise above his inherent anonymity simply because he feels he has something more to offer mankind than just making up the numbers.

But sadly, that desire will often be met with staunch resistance, not because there’s an active campaign against him, it’s just the way of the world.

The fact is, most of us will always be anonymous to the rest of the world, but in being so in that respect it’s that anonymity we can live with.  However, it’s far more significant if we become anonymous to those around us.  And, sadly, it can happen.

It’s when we take someone for granted.

At the other end of the scale, there is the celebrity, who has finally found fame, discovers that fame is not all it’s cracked up to be.  You find that meteoric rise from obscurity an adrenaline rush, and you’re no longer anonymous.

But all that changes when you are constantly bailed up in the street by well-meaning but annoying fans when you are being chased by the paparazzi and magazine reporters who thrive not on the fact that you are famous but watching and waiting for you to stumble.

Some often forget that there’s always a camera on them, or there’s a reporter lurking in the shadows, looking for the next scoop, capturing that awkward inexplicable moment when the celebrity is seen with someone who’s not their spouse, or worse, if it could be that, they get drunk and make a fool of themselves.

Do I really want to lose that anonymity that I have?

Not really.  It seems to me like it might be the lesser of two evils.