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In a word: Incline

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then…

Are you inclined to go?

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

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

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

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

Featured

Writing about writing a book – Day 2

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

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

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

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

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

Right now.

 

I pick up the pen.

 

Character number one:

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

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

He had a wife, which brings us to,

Character number two:

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

Character number three:

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

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

Character number four:

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

More on her later as the story unfolds.

So far so good.

What’s the plot?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pen in hand I begin to write.

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

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

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

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

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

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

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

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

This conference was about countering that trend.

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

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

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

Then came the shot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was the good news.

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

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

I think death would have been preferable.

…

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

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

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

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

“What happens now?”

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good man.”

…

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

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

That was a relief.

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

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

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

I nodded. “Yes.”

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I was annoyed.

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

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

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

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

“Well, it was overkill.”

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

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

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

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

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

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

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

I watched as her expression changed to one of surprise.

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

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

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

I could see their dilemma.

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

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

“Not that I’m aware of.”

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

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

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

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

“Absolving you of any wrongdoing?”

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

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

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

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

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

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

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

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

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

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

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

If I only had one day to stop over in – Riga – what would I do?

One Day in Riga? Spend It All in One Magical Spot – The Old Town (Vecrīga)

If you’ve only got a single layover in Latvia’s capital, there’s no better way to make the hours count than to lose yourself in the winding cobblestones, pastel‑painted facades, and centuries‑old stories of Riga’s Old Town. One neighbourhood, one day, endless memories.

Why the Old Town is the Ultimate “One‑Place” Stopover

What you getWhy it matters for a 12‑hour lay‑over
Iconic landmarks in walking distance – St. Peter’s Church, House of Blackheads, Riga Cathedral, and the famous Riga Skyline from the church tower.No need for a taxi or public‑transport schedule; you can see them all in under two hours of strolling.
A living museum – Gothic, Baroque, and Art Nouveau layers sit side‑by‑side, giving you a crash‑course in Baltic history.Perfect for Instagram‑worthy shots and satisfying curiosity in a short time.
Café culture & quick bites – Cozy coffee houses, open‑air markets, and bite‑size Latvian treats.Fuel up fast and keep the momentum going.
Ease of access – The Old Town is just a 5‑minute walk from the central railway station (Rīgas Dzelzceļš) and a 10‑minute tram ride from the International Airport (RIX).You can get there, explore, and be back in time for your next flight without stress.

In short, Vecrīga packs the history, architecture, food, and vibe of an entire city into a compact, pedestrian‑friendly quarter.

A Mini‑Itinerary: 8 Hours of Pure Riga

Tip: Grab a city map or enable offline maps on your phone. The Old Town is mostly sign‑posted in English, but a quick glance at a paper map can help you stay on track.

TimeActivityHighlights
08:30 – 09:00Arrival & Coffee BoostStep off the tram or walk from the train station to Café Leningrad (or the historic Miera iela “Mierā” café). Order a latte and a kliņģeris (a buttery Latvian croissant) to power up.
09:00 – 09:30St. Peter’s ChurchClimb the tower (≈ 25 min) for a panoramic view of the city’s rooftops and the Daugava River. The view alone is worth the sweat.
09:45 – 10:30House of BlackheadsStep inside the flamboyant guild hall. Its opulent interior, gilded ceilings, and the “Three Brothers” façade make for a stunning photo series.
10:45 – 11:30Riga Cathedral & the DomeWalk across the narrow lane to the Riga Cathedral, Latvia’s oldest church (11th century). If you’re feeling adventurous, climb the cathedral dome for a quieter, equally spectacular vista.
11:45 – 12:30Lunch on the SpotGrab a quick bite at Folkklubs Ala Pagrabs (underground tavern) – try the Grey Peas with Speck, a classic Latvian comfort dish, and a local craft beer.
12:45 – 13:30The Latvian National Opera (outside)Even if you can’t catch a performance, the façade and surrounding square are photogenic. Snap a few shots before heading back.
13:45 – 14:30Souvenir & Snack StopPop into a small shop on Mākslās iela for hand‑woven Linen scarves or a jar of Riga Black Balsam. Pick up a pīrāgi (filled pastry) for the journey home.
14:45 – 15:30Leisurely Walk & DepartureMeander down Rātslaukums (the Town Hall Square), soak the atmosphere, and make your way back to the station or airport with a relaxed mind.

Total time: ~8 hours (leaving a buffer for security checks and travel to/from the airport).

What Makes the Old Town So Memorable?

1. A Time Machine in Cobblestones

Every lane tells a story: the German‑influenced Gothic spires, the Renaissance merchant houses, and the Art Nouveau whispers that peek out behind the medieval façade. Walking here feels like flipping through a living history book—only you’re the protagonist.

2. Café Culture Meets Medieval Walls

Riga’s coffee scene thrives inside centuries‑old buildings. A steaming cup of locally roasted beans paired with a biezpiena kūka (cottage‑cheese cake) is a sensory shortcut to Latvian hospitality.

3. Panoramic Vistas Without the Hassle

Two towers (St. Peter’s and the Cathedral) give you 360° views that most travellers miss when they rush through the city. From the top, you’ll see the Daugava River, the modern skyline of the Business District, and the red‑brick Soviet‑era blocks—a quick lesson in Riga’s layered past.

4. Compact, Walkable, Photogenic

Because the Old Town is under 1 km², you can soak in every highlight without worrying about public transport timetables. This makes it perfect for a layover where every minute counts.

Practical Tips for the One‑Day Explorer

TipDetails
Buy a “Riga City Card” (optional)If you plan to climb both towers, the card gives a small discount and free tram rides for the day.
Dress for the climbSt. Peter’s tower isn’t wheelchair‑accessible; wear comfortable shoes and bring a light jacket—inside it can be breezy.
Cash vs. CardMost places accept cards, but have a few euros handy for street vendors or small cafés.
LanguageEnglish is widely spoken in the Old Town; a friendly “Labdien!” (good day) will earn you smiles.
Time ManagementKeep an eye on the clock—especially if your flight is early morning or late night. The tram from the airport runs every 15 minutes.
SafetyThe area is very safe day and night, but keep an eye on your belongings in crowded spots.

Quick FAQ

Q: I only have 6 hours. Can I still do the Old Town?
A: Absolutely. Skip the lunch sit‑down and opt for a street‑food market (e.g., at Riga Central Market’s “Food Hall” just outside the Old Town) to save time.

Q: I’m travelling with kids. Is the Old Town child‑friendly?
A: Yes. The cobblestone streets are stroller‑friendly, the towers have short waiting lines, and there are plenty of ice‑cream stalls for treats.

Q: What about the weather?
A: Riga can be windy and rainy in spring/fall. Bring a compact umbrella and a warm layer; the towers’ interiors provide great shelter.

Wrap‑Up: One Spot, One Day, One Unforgettable Memory

When a flight itinerary hands you a fleeting glimpse of a capital city, the key is to focus, not scatter. Riga’s Old Town delivers all of the city’s charm—history, architecture, food, and breathtaking views—within a walkable block.

So the next time you find yourself with a 12‑hour layover in the Baltics, set your compass to Vecrīga. Climb a tower, sip a latte in a centuries‑old courtyard, and let the echoes of medieval merchants and Art Nouveau artists linger in your mind long after you board the next plane.

Ready to turn that brief stopover into a story you’ll retell? Pack a light backpack, grab your camera, and let Riga’s Old Town write the chapter.

If you found this guide useful, subscribe for more one‑day city deep‑dives, and share your own Riga moments in the comments below! Safe travels!

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

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

The blurb:

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

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

But doubts about whether he chose the real Susan remained.

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

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

…

The Cover:

strangerscover9

Coming soon

 

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 264

Day 264 – Writers have two choices

…

The Writer’s Crossroads: Embrace Reality & Complexity or Escape to Simplicity?

“The writer is often faced with two choices: turn away from reality and complexity, or conquer its mystery by battling with it.” – Chinua Achebe
— Your next breakthrough begins at this fork in the road.

Table of Contents

  1. Understanding the Dilemma
  2. Why Some Writers Choose Escape
  3. The Power of Grappling with Reality
  4. Real‑World Examples: From Hemingway to Margaret Atwood
  5. Practical Ways to Face Complexity Head‑On
  6. When Escapism Becomes a Tool, Not a Trap
  7. Balancing Both Worlds: A Hybrid Approach
  8. FAQ
  9. Take the Next Step

1. Understanding the Dilemma

Every writer—whether a novelist, journalist, poet, or copywriter—confronts the same universal crossroads:

ChoiceWhat It Looks LikeTypical ProsTypical Cons
Turn AwayWrite in a bubble of fantasy, avoid controversial topics, keep narratives “comfort‑zone” safe.Faster drafts, less self‑scrutiny, immediate emotional relief.Shallow worlds, missed audience connection, risk of stagnation.
Conquer MysteryDive into messy reality—politics, mental health, cultural nuance, technical detail.Depth, authenticity, lasting impact, critical acclaim.Exhaustion, writer’s block, fear of misrepresentation.

The decision isn’t binary; it’s a dynamic tension that fuels the creative engine. Recognizing when you’re leaning toward one pole helps you consciously choose the path that best serves your story and career.

2. Why Some Writers Choose Escape

2.1 Emotional Safety Net

Complex reality often surfaces uncomfortable truths—trauma, systemic injustice, personal failure. Escapism offers a safe distance, allowing the writer to stay emotionally intact while still creating.

2.2 Market Pressures

Publishers and platforms sometimes favor “feel‑good” content that sells quickly. The promise of a high conversion rate can tempt writers to produce formulaic pieces rather than nuanced explorations.

2.3 Cognitive Overload

The modern information age inundates us with data. Decision fatigue can make the simple, familiar narrative feel like a mental oasis.

SEO Tip: Use keywords like “writer’s block,” “creative burnout,” and “escapist writing” within this section to capture search traffic from writers seeking relief solutions.

3. The Power of Grappling with Reality

When you confront complexity, you unlock three core benefits:

  1. Authentic Voice – Readers sense sincerity. Authenticity drives dwell time and social shares.
  2. Narrative Authority – Grounding your story in researched reality builds credibility, which Google’s E‑E‑A‑T (Experience, Expertise, Authoritativeness, Trustworthiness) loves.
  3. Long‑Term Impact – Works that challenge norms (think 1984 or The Handmaid’s Tale) endure for decades, generating evergreen traffic and royalties.

3.1 The “Mystery‑Battle” Framework

  1. Identify the Core Mystery – What’s the unknown element that keeps you up at night? (e.g., “Why do people self‑sabotage?”)
  2. Gather Raw Data – Interviews, statistics, first‑hand observations.
  3. Map the Complexity – Use mind maps, storyboards, or spreadsheets to visualize relationships.
  4. Create a Narrative Mini‑Goal – Solve a piece of the puzzle each chapter/section.
  5. Iterate & Refine – Treat each draft as a battlefield report, not a final victory.

Keyword Spotlight: “how to write complex characters,” “research-driven storytelling,” “creative writing process.”

4. Real‑World Examples: From Hemingway to Margaret Atwood

AuthorEscape Route?Reality‑Based TriumphWhat Writers Can Learn
Ernest HemingwayMinimalist prose, “Iceberg Theory” → appears simple but hides depth.A Farewell to Arms – War’s brutal reality under a spare style.Use minimalism to mask complexity, not avoid it.
Margaret AtwoodFuturistic dystopia → escapist veneer.The Handmaid’s Tale – Direct commentary on gender politics.Blend speculative settings with current social issues.
Neil GaimanMythic fantasy worlds.American Gods – Contemporary America’s cultural melting pot.Anchor fantastical elements in real‑world research.
Ta-Nehisi CoatesNon‑fiction memoirs.Between the World and Me – Raw, unfiltered confession on race.Honesty about personal pain creates universal resonance.

SEO Insight: Including the names of popular authors boosts search relevance for writers researching literary strategies.

5. Practical Ways to Face Complexity Head‑On

5.1 Start With a “Reality Check” Prompt

Prompt: “If this story were a news article tomorrow, what facts would have to be accurate?”

Write a short paragraph that answers the prompt. It forces you to root the narrative in verifiable detail before you drift into abstraction.

5.2 Micro‑Research Sprints

  • Timebox: 30 minutes of focused research (no email, no social).
  • Tool: Use Google Scholar, JSTOR, or reputable podcasts.
  • Output: A bullet‑list of 5 concrete facts you can weave into your draft.

5.3 The “Complexity Calendar”

DayTask
MonIdentify one confusing aspect of your story’s world.
TueDraft a scene where a character confronts it.
WedPeer‑review for clarity (ask a non‑expert friend).
ThuRevise using feedback.
FriReflect: Did the scene deepen the story’s truth?

5.4 Dialogue as Investigation

Treat every conversation as an interview. Let your characters ask probing questions that mirror the writer’s own curiosity.

5.5 Use Data Visualization

If your story involves statistics (e.g., climate change), create an infographic for yourself. Seeing numbers visually helps you internalize the data and embed it fluidly.

6. When Escapism Becomes a Tool, Not a Trap

Escapism isn’t inherently lazy—it can be a strategic way to:

  • Recharge mental batteries (take a creative “vacation”).
  • Explore alternative perspectives through genre (e.g., magical realism to discuss migration).
  • Simplify a tangled concept for a broader audience (think children’s picture books).

Guideline: Escapism must be intentional. Set a timer. If a week passes without integrating any real‑world insight, revisit your outline.

Keyword Cluster: “benefits of creative writing,” “using fiction for social commentary,” “how to write fantasy with purpose.”

7. Balancing Both Worlds: A Hybrid Approach

7.1 The “Layered Narrative” Model

LayerGoalExample
Surface (Escapist)Hook the reader with compelling plot & vivid setting.A space‑opera chase scene.
Mid‑Layer (Analytical)Introduce data, history, or philosophical debate.A politician’s speech referencing real‑world policy.
Core (Mystery‑Battle)Resolve the central philosophical question.The protagonist confronting their own moral ambiguity.

7.2 The “Two‑Draft Rule”

  1. First Draft (Escape Mode): Write fluidly, ignore facts.
  2. Second Draft (Conquer Mode): Fact‑check, tighten, embed research.

7.3 The “Reader Test”

  • Ask: “If I read this tomorrow, would I feel enlightened, entertained, or both?”
  • Metric: Aim for ≥70% of readers reporting both in post‑launch surveys (use tools like Google Forms or Typeform).

8. Frequently Asked Questions

QuestionShort Answer
Is it okay to write purely escapist fiction?Absolutely—if it’s your artistic intent. However, give it some grounding (e.g., emotional truth) to avoid feeling hollow.
How much research is “enough” for a novel?There’s no one-size‑fits‑all, but a research‑to‑writing ratio of 1:3 (1 hour research per 3 hours writing) works for many authors.
Can I use my own life’s complexity without over‑exposing?Yes. Use fictionalization techniques—change names, amalgamate characters, shift timelines—to protect privacy while preserving truth.
What if I feel overwhelmed by the “mystery” of reality?Break it down into bite‑size questions. Tackle one per writing session; celebrate each micro‑victory.
Do search engines reward complexity?Google favors depth and authoritativeness. Well‑researched, detailed content ranks higher than shallow filler.

9. Take the Next Step: Turn Complexity into Your Creative Superpower

Ready to stop choosing between flight and fight? Use the “Mystery‑Battle Checklist” below and download our free Writer’s Reality‑Toolkit (PDF) to keep your research, outlines, and drafts organised.

📋 Mystery‑Battle Checklist

  •  Identify the central mystery of my story.
  •  Collect at least 3 credible sources for each major fact.
  •  Write a “reality‑check” paragraph for every chapter.
  •  Schedule a research sprint weekly (30‑45 minutes).
  •  Conduct a peer‑review focused on clarity & authenticity.

🔗 Download the Writer’s Reality‑Toolkit (PDF)

Join our community of 12,000+ writers who’ve turned complexity into bestseller material. Subscribe for weekly tips, prompts, and SEO‑friendly writing hacks.

Final Thought

Every writer stands on the same precipice—turn away into comforting simplicity, or conquer the complex mystery that reality offers. The choice isn’t a sacrifice; it’s a strategic decision that defines your voice, your impact, and ultimately, your legacy. Embrace the battle, wield your research like a sword, and watch your stories resonate far beyond the page.

Happy writing—may your pen never shy away from the beautiful, messy truth.

…

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the Past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The Birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus, the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all rewrites, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation.  I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample.  I was going to give them the re-worked short story.  Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally, it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself.  We were there for New Year’s, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening, we were out late and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow; it was cold and wet, and apartment buildings were shimmering in the street light, and I thought, “This is the place where my main character will live”.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected.  I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went, so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller Centre is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy man with few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party.  I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble.  No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

…

Get it here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 52

This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.

The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Things are about to get complicated…

We took the elevator down to one of the basement levels, and then along a long poorly lit passageway which in my estimation had taken us to another building.

It would not have surprised me if it had been part of a large underground complex used in the second world war, safe from the overhead bombing raids.  Certainly, a lot of the fittings and paintwork looked very, very old, and I could imagine armed soldiers stationed along the length of the corridor each in his own little cutaway.

At the end, the building was a lot more modern and bright.

There was a large open space, and we headed towards one of the corners where the walls had wallpaper scenic views that if you didn’t know it was a photograph, it could almost be mistaken for a view overlooking the Thames.

It made that corner space more liveable.

There were two desks, more computers, and another girl who appeared like she had been waiting for us.

“I was told you wanted to view CCTV for the day of the recent street bombing.”

If the girl knew what I was looking for, then Monica would already have seen it and most likely had it analyzed by a team of experts.  If it wasn’t for the fact I wanted to see it myself, I might have just gone to her for the official report.

“Yes.”

I sat down beside her, and Joanne remained standing, behind us.

“OK.  There are seven cameras in that location, five of which were working at the time.  There is one across the road from the café, and it provided a good view of the actual explosion.”

She brought it up on the screen and ran it from shortly before O’Connell passed the front.  Then he came into view, walking as though he was purposefully going from one place to the next, almost stopping to look sideways into the café.  A prolonged moment looking through the window told me he had seen the reporter.

We could not see the reporter from our viewpoint.

But it was clear that O’Connell had seen something else because his pace quickened.

Then the explosion happened, and he was caught up in the aftermath, as was I as I had just entered the frame, following diligently.  My effort to look nonchalant, and not following O’Connell was not very good.  If this was a training tape on what not to do, that was me.

Watching it was horrifying, watching myself being blown a short distance across the pavement, followed by rubble.  Watching a dozen other people suffering far worse injuries were far worse.

I saw myself getting gingerly up off the ground, then seeing two men running past in the opposite direction, one of whom was McConnell.  I hadn’t realized at the time it was him.  Then we disappeared out of frame.

“Is there a camera farther along?”

She checked the list, picked a site, and brought up the feed for that timeframe, and just in from on the left-hand side was me, pinned to the ground by two men, and a street policeman, covered in dust walking up to us.

A discussion ensued, then the two men got in the car and drove off.

McConnell then suddenly reappeared from the right-hand side of the frame, walking past me and the policeman now on the ground.

Where had he come from?  How did he manage to get back to the bomb site, if that was where he had gone?

“Can we go back to the bomb site from where we left off before?”

A few seconds before the footage recommenced.

A minute, perhaps a little longer passed as those who had survived were trying to get up, McConnell reappeared from an alley two shops along from café, almost untouched by the blast, and crossed the road.

A few seconds later another person came out of the alley and followed him.

“Can you focus on that person who came out of the alley?”

She stopped the feed, zoomed in, and then cleaned up the blurry image until it showed a woman’s face.

“Who is she?”

She brought up the comments that went with the footage.  It had been already reviewed previously, as part of the investigation into the bombing. 

“They couldn’t formally identify her.”

“Anyone hazard a guess?”

“No.  She’s still a person of interest though.”

I gave the girl a piece of paper with a list of seven of the scientists from the laboratory.  “See if you can find wives of the male scientists.”

Joanne had been intrigued the whole time we had watched the event unfolding.

“That was you caught up in the explosion, wasn’t it?”

The pictures had been grainy and indistinct, so all I looked like was an anonymous blob.  Monica had obviously not told her of my involvement.

“Yes.  And McConnell.  I suspect McConnell did get the hand-off, but not from the journalist.  The journalist was in the café with the wife of the scientist who stole the information, though it would only be speculation to assume they were together, or whether she was there to sell the information, and give it to McConnell.”

“Anna Jacovich, wife of Erich Jacovich.  Microbiologist,” the girl said.

McConnell had lied.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

The first case of PI Walthenson – “A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers”

This case has everything: red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

PIWalthJones1

An excerpt from the book:

…

When Harry took the time to consider his position, a rather uncomfortable position at that, he concluded that he was somehow involved in another case that meant very little to him.

Not that it wasn’t important in some way he was yet to determine, it was just that his curiosity had got the better of him, and it had led to this: sitting in a chair, securely bound, waiting for someone, one of his captors had called Doug.

It was not the name that worried him so much; it was the evil laugh that had come after the name was spoken.

Doug what? Doug the ‘destroyer’, Doug the ‘dangerous’, Doug the ‘deadly’; there were several sinister connotations, and perhaps that was the point of the laugh, to make it more frightening than it was.

But there was no doubt about one thing in his mind right then: he’d made a mistake. A very big. and a costly mistake. Just how big the cost, no doubt, he would soon find out.

His mother and his grandmother, the wisest person he had ever known, had once told him never to eavesdrop.

At the time, he couldn’t help himself, and instead of minding his own business, listening to a one-sided conversation that ended with a time and a place. The very nature of the person receiving the call was, at the very least, sinister, and, because of the cryptic conversation, there appeared to be, or at least to Harry, criminal activity involved.

For several days, he had wrestled with the thought of whether he should go. Stay on the fringe, keep out of sight, observe and report to the police if it was a crime. Instead, he had willingly gone down the rabbit hole.

Now, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, several heat lamps hanging over his head, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry’s fear was at the highest level.

Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied, it literally made it impossible to clear it. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed and then shook his head, trying to prevent a recurrence. It was to no avail.

Let the stinging sensation be a reminder of what was right and what was wrong.

It was obvious that it was the right place and the right time, but in considering his current perilous situation, it definitely was the wrong place to be, at the worst possible time.

It was meant to be his escape, an escape from the generations of lawyers, what were to Harry, dry, dusty men who had been in business since George Washington said to the first Walthenson to step foot on American soil, ‘Why don’t you become a lawyer?” when asked what he could do for the great man.

Or so it was handed down as lore, though Harry didn’t think Washington meant it literally, the Walthenson’s, then as now, were not shy of taking advice.

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

He was, Harry’s father was prone to saying, the exception to every rule. Harry guessed his father was referring to the fact that his son wanted to be a Private Detective rather than a dry, dusty lawyer. Just the clothes were enough to turn Harry off the profession.

So, with a little of the money Harry inherited from one of his aunts, he leased an office in Gramercy Park and had it renovated to look like the Sam Spade detective agency, you know the one, Spade and Archer, and The Maltese Falcon.

There’s a movie and a book by Dashiell Hammett if you’re interested.

So, there it was, painted on the opaque glass inset of the front door, ‘Harold Walthenson, Private Detective’.

There was enough money to hire an assistant, and it took a week before the right person came along, or, more to the point, didn’t just see his business plan as something sinister. Ellen, a tall, cool woman in a long black dress, or so the words of a song in his head told him, fitted in perfectly.

She’d seen the movie, but she said with a grin, Harry was no Humphrey Bogart.

Of course not, he said, he didn’t smoke.

Three months on the job, and it had been a few calls, no ‘real’ cases, nothing but missing animals, and other miscellaneous items. What he really wanted was a missing person. Or perhaps a beguiling, sophisticated woman who was as deadly as she was charming, looking for an errant husband, perhaps one that she had already ‘dispatched’.

Or for a tall, dark and handsome foreigner who spoke in riddles and in heavily accented English, a spy, or perhaps an assassin, in town to take out the mayor. The man was such an imbecile that Harry had considered doing it himself.

Now, in a back room of a disused warehouse, that wishful thinking might be just about to come to a very abrupt end, with none of the romanticised trappings of the business befalling him. No beguiling women, no sinister criminals, no stupid policemen.

Just a nasty little man whose only concern was how quickly or how slowly Harry’s end was going to be.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2024

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 17

In the old days it would be ‘Houston, we have a problem’

…

I thought about staying in the day room, not hiding, but on the pretext of getting that report ready for the Admiral, but it was only a fleeting thought.

I had been the captain of a cargo vessel; how much hard could this be?

I stepped onto the bridge, and it all felt different.

The second officer had been waiting by the door, and said, ‘We’ve picked up several alien vessels on the long range scanner, like nothing we’ve seen before.”

“Not like the vessel that you just saw? It can’t be our lucky day to find two new species within hours of each other, though I guess it’s not impossible.”

And considering we humans had been in space, and nearly to the edge of our galaxy for nearly ten years, why wait until now to make themselves known?

We arrived at the navigators console and he had the alien vessels displayed.

On screen, they were quite small, and trying to increase magnification turned them into blurs. I hadn’t seen the other ship. “Tell me we have a photograph of the alien vessel.”

“We have.”

The navigator displayed the alien vessel beside the two new ships, and at first glance they didn’t appear to be similar. We’d have to wait until we were closer.

And see if they were hostile, or not.

“How soon before we make contact?” I asked the navigator.

“About seven hours, sir.”

“Good. Keep on the trail of that vessel. Our orders are to retrieve the captain and Myers. Oh, and you’ve been promoted to Acting Number One,” I said quietly to the second officer.

“They’re not sending a replacement?” Clearly he wasn’t expecting it, and judging by his expression, not exactly happy about it.

“That is still to be decided. You have the bridge. I’ll be down in Engineering if you need me.”

Another trip in a suspect elevator that had a few creaks and groans before it delivered me safely to the engine room.

It was more a large open space that was very quiet, with banks of consoles and people in specially coloured uniforms to designate their department. Bridge crew were designated dark Green, Engineering navy blue.

I knew others were not exactly enamoured with their uniforms, but someone, or some group, had put a lot of thought into them. As for the design, well, that was a hot topic at any time among the crew.

The chief engineer, Scottish of course, had an office to himself, and had the accoutrements of his achievements scattered about, along with more interesting photographs of himself with many of the more famous people back on earth.

I had no such keepsakes.

He saw me coming and stood as I entered the office. It took a few seconds for it to register that it was a mark of respect to the captain, even though he was older, wiser, and far more experienced.

“Congratulations.”

He held out his hand and I shook it.

“I wish it was in better circumstances.”

“What exactly happened?”

“We were boarded. How they knew the captain was in his day room is anyone’s guess, but the alien beamed aboard, like we transport supplies.”

“We have yet to prove its not harmful, so these aliens must be different.”

“Except they take the same form, and speak our language.”

“No doubt using a translator. And if they can do that, then this is not the first time they have seen us.”

“But it’s the first time we’ve seen them?”

“Well, that’s a little more tricky because I think we have encountered them before. Your Admiral just uploaded a few files, and it seems we have encountered them before, though not quite so up close and personal.”

I didn’t like the way he referred to the Admiral as my Admiral, or perhaps I was not across his vernacular.

“He omitted to tell me that when I spoke to him.”

“It was in the middle of the night, and we were to get a briefing once we reached the edge of our galaxy. Van was across it, and was going to tell the crew in a few days, but this Venus thing popped up.

You know how it is, never a dull day in space.”

…

© Charles Heath 2021

The 2am Rant: We’re out in the country

Or almost

When you venture out from the city, particularly this city, you find yourself among the blocks that run to several acres, allotments that are ideal for keeping a horse or two.

Inner suburban living often runs to high-rise apartment blocks, with no gardens, except perhaps on the roof.

Outer suburban living runs to individual houses on allotments that are from 600 to 2,000 square meters. We have not yet gone into mass building of duplexes or terrace housing because, for the time being, we don’t have the population.

And, this is why you only have to go about 35 kilometres from the centre of the city to be able to buy acreage.

So, we are visiting, and on such a glorious day, it’s a pleasure to sit on the back verandah, spending some time soaking up the sunshine, breathing the country’s fresh air, and letting the inspiration flow into the writing.

It works.

I’ve managed to write another photograph-inspired story, number 151, which will be published on my writing blog in the next day or so.

Also being tackled will be the next episode of PI Walthensen’s second case, nearing 60.

Unfortunately, though, the inspirational location didn’t afford me a title for this new case, but it will have the opening three words “A Case Of…’

The rest, I’m sure, will come as the story unfolds.

What I learned about writing – History was a very useful subject

The Unexpected Power of the Past: Why I Wish I’d Paid More Attention to History

Remember those days in school? The ones where you’d stare out the window, convinced that the dates, names, and dusty battles of history held absolutely no relevance to your future life? Yeah, me too. I vaguely recall thinking of history as one of the most… well, let’s be honest, frankly boring subjects. It felt like a relentless parade of facts, disconnected from the vibrant, fast-paced world I was eager to dive into.

Oh, how wrong I was.

It’s a sentiment that echoes in my mind with surprising frequency now: “If only I knew that history would be very useful later on!” It’s a wistful sigh, a gentle kick to the past-self who was too busy dreaming of the future to appreciate the profound wisdom etched into the past.

We often dismiss history as something purely academic, confined to textbooks and the occasional documentary. But what if we’d approached it differently? What if, instead of passively absorbing dates, we’d actively engaged with it? What if we’d decided that we were going to write historical fiction?

Imagine that classroom. Instead of rote memorization, we’re crafting narratives. We’re stepping into the shoes of a Roman centurion, feeling the grit of the battlefield. We’re whispering secrets in the court of Queen Elizabeth I, navigating the treacherous currents of power. We’re experiencing the roaring twenties, the anxieties of the Cold War, the seismic shifts of revolutions not as abstract concepts, but as lived human experiences.

This shift in perspective would have been transformative. Historical fiction isn’t just about “what happened.” It’s about why it happened. It’s about the motivations, the fears, the hopes, and the inherent humanity of people who lived in vastly different circumstances. When you build a story, you have to understand the context – the social norms, the technological limitations, the prevailing ideologies, the everyday struggles. You have to delve into the human condition across time.

And that, my friends, is where the true usefulness of history lies. It’s a masterclass in human behavior. It’s a vast repository of triumphs and failures, of brilliant innovations and tragic missteps. It’s a constant reminder that while the technology and the fashion may change, the fundamental drivers of human action – love, greed, ambition, loyalty, fear – remain remarkably consistent.

If we had approached history with the intention of building compelling stories, we would have been forced to:

  • Develop Empathy: Understanding a character from a different era requires stepping outside our modern biases and trying to see the world through their eyes.
  • Hone Research Skills: Crafting believable historical fiction demands digging deep, verifying details, and understanding the nuances of a period.
  • Grasp Cause and Effect: Every event in history has a chain reaction. Writing fiction forces you to understand these connections and how actions ripple through time.
  • Appreciate Complexity: History is rarely black and white. Fiction demands exploring ethical dilemmas and the grey areas of human decision-making.
  • See Patterns: Recognizing recurring themes and patterns in human history helps us understand the present and anticipate potential futures.

Looking back, it feels like a missed opportunity. We were given the tools to understand so much about ourselves and our world, but perhaps we lacked the imagination to see their true potential. “If only we were smarter then than now!” This isn’t about regret, but about a newfound appreciation. It’s about recognizing that the seemingly dry facts of history are the building blocks of understanding, the raw material for compelling narratives, and a profound guide to navigating the complexities of human existence.

So, if you’re still in school, or even if you’re looking for a new way to engage with the past, consider this: don’t just learn history, feel it. Imagine the stories waiting to be uncovered. Because you never know when that forgotten historical tidbit might just unlock a crucial insight, or inspire your next great idea. The past isn’t dead; it’s just waiting for us to tell its story.