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.
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.
John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.
Suddenly, he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.
If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.
At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.
That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.
Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.
One‑Day Stopover in Sofia? Make It Unforgettable with a Visit to Alexander Nevsky Cathedral
If you’ve only got 24 hours in Bulgaria’s capital, there’s one landmark that will give you a perfect snapshot of Sofia’s history, culture, and soul: the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral.
In this post I’ll walk you through why this soaring Orthodox masterpiece deserves the top spot on your itinerary, how to get there from the airport, what to see inside, where to grab a quick bite, and a few insider tips to make the most of a single day in Sofia.
Why the Cathedral Beats All Other Options
Aspect
What the Cathedral Offers
Comparison
Iconic Status
Sofia’s most photographed building; appears on postcards, travel guides, and the city’s coat of arms.
No other sight rivals its recognizability.
Architectural Drama
A blend of Russian Revival and Byzantine motifs, crowned by a golden dome that dominates the skyline.
Other sites (Vitosha Boulevard, Boyana Church) are beautiful but less instantly “Sofia‑defining.”
Cultural Insight
Houses relics, mosaics, and a crypt that tells the story of Bulgaria’s post‑Ottoman revival.
Museums require more time; the cathedral packs history into a single visit.
Convenient Location
Nestled in the heart of the city, within walking distance of restaurants, parks, and public transport.
Remote sites (Vitosha Mountain) need extra travel time you simply don’t have.
Free Admission
No ticket line, no booking required – perfect for a tight schedule.
Many other attractions charge entry or have long queues.
In short, Alexander Nevsky Cathedral is the single most efficient way to soak up Sofia’s character when the clock is ticking.
Getting There: From Sofia Airport to the Cathedral in 15 Minutes
Exit the arrivals hall and follow signs for the Sofia Metro (Line 1 – “Red” line). The metro station is a short 3‑minute walk, located under the terminal.
Buy a single‑journey ticket (≈ 1.60 BGN, about €0.80) from the vending machines – cash or contactless works.
Board the train toward “Mladost 1” and alight after three stops at “Serdika” (≈ 5 minutes travel).
Follow the signs to the “Sofia Central Railway Station” exit. You’ll emerge onto a bustling pedestrian zone.
Walk north along “Knyaz Mihail Obrinski” street (≈ 5 minutes). The cathedral’s golden domes will dominate the skyline as you approach “Nevski Sq.”
Total door‑to‑door time: ~15 minutes, leaving you with over 10 hours to explore.
Inside the Cathedral: A Mini‑Guide for the Time‑Pressed Traveler
Feature
What to Look For
How Much Time?
The Exterior
The massive gold-plated cross, the 12 onion domes, and the intricately detailed façade.
5 minutes (photos).
The Interior Nave
A forest of 40,000+ marble columns, a massive iconostasis, and the iconic fresco of the St. Alexander Nevsky mural.
7 minutes (scan).
The Crypt
Resting place of Bulgarian royalty and notable clergy; a quiet spot to reflect on the nation’s post‑Ottoman resurgence.
5 minutes (optional).
The Golden Mosaic
The “Christ Pantocrator” in the central dome glistens with gold leaf; a masterpiece of Orthodox art.
3 minutes (look up).
The Gift Shop
Hand‑crafted icons, amber jewelry, and traditional Bulgarian rosaries.
2 minutes (if you like souvenirs).
Tip: If you arrive between 9:00 – 11:00 am, you’ll avoid the mid‑day tourist rush and can enjoy a quieter atmosphere for photos.
Grab a Bite Nearby: The “Moma” Café Experience
Just a two‑minute walk from the cathedral’s side entrance sits Moma Café, a stylish spot beloved by locals for its blend of Bulgarian flavours and Mediterranean flair.
Signature Dish: Banitsa (phyllo pastry filled with feta and spinach) – a perfect quick‑eat that fuels your next adventure.
Coffee: Try the “Sofia Sunrise” – a cold brew infused with rosehip and a dash of honey, a nod to the city’s rose‑oil heritage.
Price Range: 5–12 BGN per item (≈ €2.50–€6).
If you’re on a tighter budget, the street‑side kebap shops on “Vitosha Blvd.” offer a savoury kebapche for under 3 BGN.
Making the Most of Your One‑Day Stopover
Time Slot
Activity
08:00‑09:30
Arrive at Sofia Airport, take the metro to the city center.
09:30‑10:45
Explore Alexander Nevsky Cathedral (photo session + brief interior tour).
10:45‑11:30
Coffee and Banitsa at Moma Café.
11:30‑13:30
Stroll through City Garden and National Art Gallery (both adjacent).
13:30‑15:00
Lunch at Made in Home (farm‑to‑table Bulgarian dishes).
15:00‑17:00
Walk the historic Vitosha Boulevard, shop for souvenirs.
17:00‑18:00
Return to the airport via metro (allow extra time for security).
Feel free to swap the afternoon activities for a quick trip to the Boyana Church (UNESCO site) if you’re a history buff – just remember you’ll need ~45 minutes of travel each way.
Insider Hacks: Avoid the Common Pitfalls
Dress Respectfully – While the cathedral is a tourist hotspot, it’s still a place of worship. Cover shoulders and knees (a light scarf works for women).
Mind the Bells – The massive bells toll every hour; a gentle hush is appreciated during the chime.
Free Wi‑Fi – The cathedral’s lobby offers complimentary Wi‑Fi; perfect for uploading those panoramic shots on the go.
Currency – Bulgaria uses the Lev (BGN). Most cafés accept cards, but carry a few coins for street vendors.
Time Zone – Sofia is UTC+2 (UTC+3 in summer). Double‑check your connecting flight departure time.
Bottom Line: One Site, One Day, One Memorable Experience
When you have just a single day to taste Sofia, you need a destination that encapsulates the city’s spirit without demanding a full‑day commitment. Alexander Nevsky Cathedral does exactly that: it offers a breathtaking visual punch, a concise history lesson, and a convenient central location that lets you weave in a few extra highlights without breaking the clock.
So next time your itinerary shows a brief stop in Bulgaria’s capital, skip the indecision and head straight for the golden domes. In 15 minutes you’ll be inside a living monument; in an hour you’ll have a collection of photos worthy of any travel album; and in a day you’ll leave Sofia with a vivid memory of its heart, soul, and unmistakable skyline.
Happy travels—and may your layover be as golden as the Nevsky domes!
It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone. It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air. In summer, it was the best time of the day. When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.
On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’. This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.
She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable. The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day. So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.
It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her. It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
I sat in my usual corner. Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner. There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around. I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria. All she did was serve coffee and cake.
When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?” She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.
“I am this morning. I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating. I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise. I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”
“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me. I have had a lot worse. I think she is simply jealous.”
It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be. “Why?”
“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”
It made sense, even if it was not true. “Perhaps if I explained…”
Maria shook her head. “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole. My grandfather had many expressions, David. If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her. Before she goes home.”
Interesting advice. Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma. What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?
“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.
“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much. Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone. It was an intense conversation. I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell. It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”
“It is indeed. And you’re right. She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one. She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office. Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”
And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful. She had liked Maria the moment she saw her. We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived. I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.
She sighed. “I am glad I am just a waitress. Your usual coffee and cake?”
“Yes, please.”
Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.
I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one. What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.
There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it. We were still married, just not living together.
This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her. She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.
It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.
There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd. She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right. It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.
But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings. But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.
Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart. I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit. The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.
I knew I was not a priority. Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.
And finally, there was Alisha. Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around. It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties.
At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata. Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.
Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.
When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan. She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores. We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated. It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.
It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard. I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.
She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top. She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.
Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak. I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.
Neither spoke nor looked at each other. I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”
Maria nodded and left.
“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests. I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence? All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”
My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.
“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us. There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”
“Why come at all. A phone call would have sufficed.”
“I had to see you, talk to you. At least we have had a chance to do that. I’m sorry about yesterday. I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her. I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”
An apology was the last thing I expected.
“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington. I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction. We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”
“You’re not coming with me?” She sounded disappointed.
“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. You are so much better doing your job without me. I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband. Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less. You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it. I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”
It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement. Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points. I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever. The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.
Then, her expression changed. “Is that what you want?”
“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways. But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”
“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”
That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud. “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan. You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy. While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”
“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother. She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right. Why do you think I gave you such a hard time? You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously. But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”
“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”
“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”
“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”
I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead. Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers. Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen. Gianna didn’t like Susan either.
Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her. She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.
She stood. “Last chance.”
“Forever?”
She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face. “Of course not. I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship. I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”
I had been trying. “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan. I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”
She frowned at me. “As you wish.” She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table. “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home. Please make it sooner rather than later. Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”
That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car. I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.
Buried Alive: Why Writing Isn’t Just a Passion—It’s Oxygen
“For me, not being allowed to write is tantamount to being buried alive.” — Mikhail Bulgakov
Imagine the heavy, suffocating weight of earth pressing down on your chest. Imagine the absolute silence, the inability to move, the slow, agonizing realisation that your voice has been completely muffled from the world.
To most people, writing is a hobby, a professional skill, or perhaps a therapeutic outlet. But to the true writer, Mikhail Bulgakov’s haunting words are not hyperbole. They are a statement of biological and spiritual reality. For certain souls, the prohibition of the written word is not a restriction; it is an execution.
Why is it that the compulsion to write runs so deep? And what happens when a writer is forced into silence? Let’s explore the profound weight of Bulgakov’s words and what they reveal about the fierce, untameable nature of the creative spirit.
The Prison of the Unwritten: Who Was Mikhail Bulgakov?
To truly understand this sentiment, we have to look at the man who uttered it. Mikhail Bulgakov was a Russian novelist and playwright best known for his masterpiece, The Master and Margarita. Living and writing under the oppressive regime of the Soviet Union in the 1920s and 30s, Bulgakov experienced censorship and blacklisting firsthand.
His books were banned, his plays were pulled from stages, and his livelihood was systematically dismantled by the state. He was effectively silenced—not because he had nothing to say, but because what he had to say terrified those in power.
When a government or circumstance forbids an artist from creating, it attempts to sever their connection to humanity. For Bulgakov, living in Soviet Russia without the right to write meant his thoughts had nowhere to go. They stagnated, poisoned him from the inside, and turned his daily life into a tomb. When he wrote that famous plea to Joseph Stalin—asking either to be permitted to work or to be exiled abroad because “a Russian writer cannot live without his homeland”—he was fighting for his life.
Writing as an Existential Necessity
Why does the denial of writing feel like entombment?
The Mind as a Pressure Cooker: Writers don’t just decide to write; they are driven by a ceaseless internal engine. Characters speak in their heads; plots unfold while washing dishes; observations of the world demand to be translated into metaphor. When this creative pressure has no outlet, it builds up. Without the release valve of the blank page, the mind becomes a claustrophobic chamber.
The Urge to Exist For many writers, writing is proof of existence. René Descartes said, “I think, therefore I am.” The writer adds, “I write, therefore I am understood.” To write is to take the chaotic, fleeting experience of being human and anchor it into something permanent. If you cannot write, your experiences vanish into the ether, leaving you feeling invisible—as if you have already faded away.
Connection Across the Void Art is a bridge. When writers put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard), they are reaching out across the dark abyss of isolation to say, “Are you here too? Did you feel this?” To ban a writer from writing is to cut the ropes of that bridge, leaving them stranded on an island of their own unspoken thoughts.
The Modern “Buried Alive”
You don’t have to live under a totalitarian regime to know what it feels like to be buried alive creatively.
In our modern lives, we often bury ourselves. We take on demanding corporate jobs that drain our cognitive battery. We prioritize productivity over expression. We tell ourselves, “I’ll write that novel, start that blog, or finish that poem when things settle down.”
Days turn into months. Months turn into years.
Suddenly, you wake up and realize you haven’t created anything authentic in ages. You feel restless, irritable, and strangely hollow—even if your life looks successful on paper. That is the feeling of suffocation. That is the slow creep of being buried alive by the mundane demands of daily survival.
Bulgakov’s words serve as a stark wake-up call: Neglecting your creative calling is a form of self-burial.
How to Unearth Yourself
If you are reading this and feeling the dirt piling up over your own creative ambitions, how do you dig your way out? How do you claw your way back to the surface?
Steal the Moments: You don’t need a cabin in the woods or a year-long sabbatical to write. Bulgakov wrote even when his works were banned, hiding manuscripts in drawers (famously leading to the phrase “manuscripts don’t burn”). Write in the margins of your day—fifteen minutes on your lunch break, thirty minutes before the world wakes up.
Release the Need for Perfection: Often, the fear of writing badly keeps us from writing at all. But a messy, breathing draft is infinitely better than the sterile perfection of a blank page locked inside your head.
Treat It Like Oxygen: Stop viewing writing as a reward you give yourself if you finish your chores. Treat it like water and air. Carve out non-negotiable space for it in your routine.
Final Thoughts: Let the Voice Out
Mikhail Bulgakov reminds us that the human spirit cannot be indefinitely suppressed without consequence. Words are meant to be let out into the light, not left to rot in the dark catacombs of the mind.
If you have a story burning a hole in your chest, an essay waiting to be born, or a poem struggling to break free, do not keep it buried. Pick up the pen. Hit the keys. Breathe.
Because on the other side of that blank page isn’t just a finished piece of work—it’s your freedom.
What does writing mean to you? Have you ever felt the suffocating weight of creative silence? Let’s talk about it in the comments below.
Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?
…
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledgedthat something had happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive, she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realises is the love of his life.
The cover, at the moment, looks like this:
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
This story is now on the list to be finished, so over the next few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.
The reason new episodes have been sporadic is that there are other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.
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 underground to Lancaster Gate and parted ways before crossing the road and entering Hyde Park. Severin had designated the meeting place as the rotunda, as he called it, in the Italian Gardens.
It was dark, although there was adequate lighting, which made it a good cover for anyone else skulking nearby. And making it easier for Jennifer, who sensibly dressed in black, to scout.
It took me some time heading slowly towards the stone building. I was deliberately early, so he might not be there yet. In the intervening time, I could hear the odd comment from Jennifer, as she looked over the various suspects who were also taking in the aesthetic beauty of the gardens, which would look so much better in daylight.
Oddly enough, in all the times I’d been to Hyde Park, these gardens had never been a point of visiting, such was the allure of the pedal boats on the Serpentine.
I did a slow circuit of the building and saw three people seated inside. Two women, together, and a man on one side. It could be him.
“I think he’s already here, just going to check.”
“Nothing stirring out here, so far.”
“Keep alert.”
It was odd hearing a voice almost in my head as if she were next to me.
I came up to the seat in full view of the person sitting on one end of the bench, so as not to alarm them. I could feel their eyes on me as I sat down. If it were him, he would talk to me. I was not going to talk to him.
Something else I noted, there was no direct line of fire from anywhere hidden, so if there was an assassin out there, he would have to do it in the open. Severin had scouted the place earlier.
“You alone?” The man spoke for about three or four minutes. I’d seen him look around, checking for himself that I was not followed.
“As far as I’m aware.”
I moved a little closer. He was talking very softly.
“What happened to Maury?”
“Tortured and murdered by Dobbin, I believe. If he knew where the device was, he didn’t give up its location.”
“He wouldn’t. Dobbin, you say?”
“As far as I can tell. He was running O’Connell, but you knew that already.” To save time dancing around the truth, and lessen the time being a target, I added, “Everyone believes O’Connell is still alive. He didn’t have the device when I searched him. Who shot him?”
“Not us. If he is alive, Dobbin must have usurped our cleaners and spirited him away, which means it’s likely Dobbin has the device.”
“He doesn’t. He co-opted me into his section. O’Connell appears to have done a runner from him, too. Did you know O’Connell was on a mission to pick up the device from an intermediary?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know that Anna Jacovich was there too?”
“Then you know what’s on the device?”
“I wish I didn’t. Or that you two were security guards at the Laboratory where Erich stole the data. What took so long for him to decide to sell it?
“When he was fired by the company after they lost the military contract. He had no intention of selling it, just getting it into the hands of the public so they would be forced to stop.”
“Except he was killed, and Anna decided she needed an escape plan.”
“Which O’Connell provided by wire transfer. The money’s gone, and the data didn’t arrive. It’s still out there.”
“Who was you boss in all this? Monica?”
“Who. No. It’s….”
I heard the phutt sound of a bullet passing through a silencer, and just caught the edge of the barrel retracting from behind one of the pillars. No need to check him, he was dead, still sitting upright as if nothing had happened.
I got out of the seat and moved towards where the gun had been, trying not to alert the other two sitting on the other side, facing the other way, fortunately.
When I reached the outside, there was no one. A quick scan in the darkness, my eyesight hampered by going from light to dark, making images blurry at best.
Investigations of crimes don’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get found or punished.
That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.
At one stage, the police thought I had murdered my own wife, though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me. I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.
The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbours reckon there were heated discussions the day before.
Routine was the word she used.
Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible. I could sense the raging violence within him. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.
Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.
After three months, the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.
But it was not the last time I saw Gabrielle.
The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact that she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.
For months, I was barely functioning, to the extent that I had all but lost my job and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.
They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts. Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.
No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.
She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy. Her story varied only in that she had been made to witness his execution. Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.
It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down. I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess. Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.
What happened became our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again. It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.
And it had.
Since then, we saw each other about once a month in a cafe. I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.
We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee. It took a while for me to realise that all she had was her work; personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.
She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.
I wondered if this text message was in that category. I was certain it would interest the police, and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.
I reached for the phone, then put it back down again. I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.
We were standing off the two ships, each about half the size of our ship.
I wondered briefly if the people on board were thinking the same as us.
What were the people like, friendly or hostile, what weapons the other had, and what technology? We knew they could board us, by beaming in combatants, so I’d sent the third officer to organize the security team and other crew members to spread out through the ship and keep an eye out for boarders.
At the very least they knew we couldn’t send people over to their ships.
I walked over to the communications officer’s console where the communication expert sat, waiting.
“Can we broadcast a message so the other ship can hear us?”
“Assuming they understand any or all of the 32 languages we can convert any message to.”
And, if I read the crew briefing note on her correctly, she could speak fluently in every one of them. Just, perhaps, not alien, but up till now, she didn’t have to.
“The last one I spoke to understood me just fine.”
“Very good. Just speak when you are ready. We’re transmitting now.”
I went back to stand in front of the Captain’s chair though I was not sure why. I took a moment to consider what I should say, then proceeded with, “This is the commanding officer of the Earth space ship “Nautilus” hailing the two ships nearby. We are following the vessel that kidnapped two of our crew members. We have no quarrel with you, and this being the case, we will be proceeding with our pursuit forthwith.”
I put my hand up to indicate the message was done.
“Are systems online and ready to go?” I said in the direction of the helmsman who, like the rest of the crew, were looking at me. Why I wasn’t sure.
The helmsman replied, “Ready when you are.”
I was going to give the alien ships five minutes, then leave. They were either going to board us, or shoot at us, or maybe just let us go.
I looked at the military specialist. “I assume we can retaliate if they start shooting at us?”
“It’s possible if they don’t hit any vital parts of the ship.”
It was a rather sardonic reply, or maybe that was her usual tone. I didn’t get time to reflect on it.
“You might want to reconsider that plan, Earth ship Nautilus.”
It was an accented version of English, British perhaps, but very precise, and most likely the result of a translator.
“Who am I speaking to?”
“You may call me the commanding officer of my spaceship.
“Are you with the people who kidnapped my crew members?”
There was silence, a period where I assumed they were considering a response. Then, “I am not sure what you mean by with but were are of the same people, yes, but the one you speak of is not like us. We have been seeking them as you appear to be, but for different reasons.”
“So why are here, impeding our progress, if you are not helping them?”
“We wanted to see who they have mistreated, and what they have done. This is not the first time they have ventured into uncharted space.”
“Where have you come from?”
“Several thousands of what you call light-years away, in a system similar to yours, only each of the planets have a different people. The people who have taken your crew come from one of the planets who are looking for weapons to fight a war they are losing.”
“Then I think you people are in a great deal of trouble. They have also stolen a shipment of plutonium, which if they know what they’re doing, can be used to make bombs that can render a place unliveable for thousands of what we call years. Believe me when I say it’s a very long time.”
“Nuclear bombs?”
“You’ve heard of them?”
“In a roundabout way. You should know we are currently chasing the people who did this, and we are here to advise against you proceeding with your rescue mission. The people you are chasing have a vastly superior ship, and weapons than you, as I suspect your ship is to you, a marvel, but to us, about a hundred of your earth years behind us. We always believed your differences with your fellow humans would always hinder your space programs to the point where Mars would be the furthest you could travel.”
“You should realize we are out there on the very edge of our galaxy ready to find new ones.”
“That we cannot stop. But I give you this warning, not everyone out there is ready to accept new people from other planets or systems. And they are all more technologically advanced.”
Nothing surprising there.
“We’re still going out there, danger withstanding.”
“Be that on your head. I suggest, however, that you do not follow those who have taken your crew members. We will take care of them, and return your people in due course.”
“Thanks for the warning, but we do not abandon our people.”
“Then don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Then, before our eyes, the two ships left, or that is to say, disappeared into a bright light that lasted a few seconds before the inky black returned.
“What just happened,” I said before I realized I’d said it out loud.
A voice from behind said, in reply, “I believe they disappeared into what might be described as a wormhole.”
It’s the obvious items in the photograph that you see first, or that your eyes go to first.
The ocean, the beach, the buildings. You can see a shopping mall with MacDonald’s sign above it.
Yes, it’s late afternoon, and you can see long shadows of the buildings.
So, if I asked you what did you see in this photo, what would your reply be?
From a thriller writer or murder mystery writer’s point of view, it’s what you don’t necessarily see.
So, for the purposes of the story, the opening line for the world-weary detective, handing the photo to his partner, “What’s is it you can’t see in this photo?”
A partner that hadn’t been on the job very long, in from the suburbs, and had seen little more than break and enters car theft, and school kids hi-jinks.
“What am I supposed to be looking for?”
“You want to be a detective, or be looking for old ladies cats?”
His partner takes the photo in hand and looks at it again. There has to be a reason why the old man had given it to him, or perhaps there wasn’t and he was just playing with him again.
No, he thought, there has to be something…
And then he saw it, quite by accident. A hand, a gun, and following the line of fire, at the end, what looked like someone in the bushes.
In a photo taken from a higher floor of the building over the road, looking down on what was supposed to be a rooftop recreational area.
Only there had been no report of a missing person or a gunshot wound in the last seven days.
“When was it taken?”
“Two days ago?”
“And no reports of a shooting, or a body?”
“No. And yet the person who took this swears he saw a body, but by the time he came back, there was nothing.”
The detective handed his partner a second photo. Time-stamped five minutes later. With no gun and no body.
The Art of the Pivot: Why Walking Away from Your Manuscript Might Be the Best Thing You Can Do
Every writer knows the romanticized image of the craft: staring blankly at a glowing screen, wrestling with a stubborn sentence at 2:00 AM, fueled by caffeine and sheer willpower. We are told that real writers push through. We are fed mantras about discipline, grit, and hitting our daily word counts no matter what.
But what happens when grit turns into a grind, and the grind turns into a dead end?
If you’ve been staring at the same chapter for weeks, feeling like you’re trying to squeeze blood from a stone, I have a controversial prescription for you: Stop.
Letting go can be the hardest part of writing. But if you are having trouble finishing a manuscript, forcing yourself to stay in the chair out of sheer frustration is usually a recipe for burnout, not a finished book. Instead of staring at a blank page and producing nothing, maybe you should walk away and write something else.
Here is why stepping away is a strategic superpower, and how to overcome the hidden psychological hurdles that keep us chained to failing projects.
The Trap of the Sunk Cost Fallacy
Why is it so hard to abandon a manuscript, even temporarily? Blame human psychology.
The sunk cost fallacy is our tendency to continue investing in something because we’ve already sunk time, emotional energy, and identity into it. You’ve written 40,000 words. You’ve built a complex magic system. You’ve lived with these characters for a year. Throwing it away—or even setting it aside—feels like an admission of failure.
Reframing the narrative: Walking away is not quitting; it’s pivoting.
Writers are like sculptors. Sometimes, you spend hours carving a piece of marble, only to realize the stone has a structural flaw. You don’t keep hammering away until the whole thing shatters. You set it on a shelf, pick up a fresh block, and apply the techniques you just learned to something new.
When you pivot to a new project instead of facing daily writer’s block, you keep your creative muscles moving. You maintain your writing habit without the soul-crushing frustration of a blocked manuscript. And often, while your subconscious is busy drafting a short story or a quirky essay, it solves the plotting hole in your novel behind the scenes.
Beyond the Block: 4 Other Manuscript-Killing Problems to Overcome
While writer’s block gets all the press, a stalled manuscript is usually the symptom of deeper storytelling or psychological issues. If you want to eventually cross the finish line—whether with this project or the next—you need to recognize these four common roadblocks:
1. The “Middle-of-the-Book” Slump
Every writer knows the honeymoon phase: the exhilarating beginning where anything is possible. Then comes the messy middle, where the initial adrenaline wears off, the plot gets tangled, and the ending is still too far away to see.
The Fix: This is the classic signal to take a break. If you force your way through the middle without a compass, you’ll end up with a meandering narrative that requires a massive, painful rewrite later. Write a short story, outline a different novel, or journal for a week. Give your brain distance to regain perspective on the macro-story.
2. Loss of Emotional Connection
If writing feels like doing your taxes, your readers are going to feel that boredom too. Sometimes, we outline a plot years in advance, but by the time we actually write it, we’ve outgrown the premise. Your tastes have changed; your worldview has shifted; the characters no longer resonate.
The Fix: Don’t force enthusiasm. Authenticity bleeds onto the page. If the passion is gone, acknowledge it gracefully. Shelving a manuscript because you’ve evolved as a writer isn’t a failure—it’s proof of growth.
3. Perfectionism and Premature Editing
Many manuscripts die by a thousand paper cuts because the author tries to edit Chapter 1 while struggling to write Chapter 10. You cannot polish a draft that doesn’t exist yet. Perfectionism is just fear in a Sunday best suit—fear of being judged, fear of not being good enough.
The Fix: Lower the bar. Give yourself permission to write badly. As legendary author Shannon Hale put it: “I’m writing a first draft and reminding myself that I’m simply shoveling sand into a box so that later I can build castles.”
4. Lack of a Structural Blueprint
Sometimes the manuscript is stuck simply because you’ve written yourself into a corner. You didn’t plant the necessary seeds in Act I to harvest the climax in Act III, and now the plot logic has collapsed.
The Fix: This requires structural triage, not brute-force writing. If you’re a “pantser” (someone who writes by the seat of their pants), this might be the moment you need to pause, step back, and map out a basic outline to find where the tracks derailed.
How to Let Go (Without Giving Up)
Walking away from a manuscript requires emotional maturity. It means untangling your self-worth from your daily word count. Here is a practical roadmap for hitting pause without losing momentum:
Stage a Formal “Pause”: Don’t just ghost your manuscript out of guilt. Leave a detailed note in your document about where you got stuck and what ideas you were toying with. This makes returning to it later much easier.
Redirect the Energy: Take the exact same writing time you dedicated to the novel and channel it into something entirely different—poetry, flash fiction, blogging, or even free-writing. The goal is to keep the pipeline flowing without the pressure of the “Big Book.”
Trust the Subconscious: The human brain is a master problem-solver, but it can’t work on solutions while you are actively panicking over a blinking cursor. When you step away, you give your mind the freedom to connect disparate dots in the background.
The Bottom Line
Writing a book is a marathon of endurance, but it’s also a dance of intuition. If you are constantly dragging your manuscript across the finish line like a reluctant corpse, pause and ask yourself why.
Drop the guilt. Give yourself permission to walk away, clear your palate, and write something else for a while. You might just find that when you finally return to your manuscript, the fog has lifted, the path is clear, and the words are waiting for you again.
Have you ever abandoned a manuscript only to return to it later with fresh eyes? How did you break through the wall? Let’s talk about the messy reality of writing in the comments below!
