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.
These donuts are whole, with jam injected into them and are delicious. You cannot stop at one, which is why you get five.
They are like the donuts I used to get from the Dandenong market when I was a child. Back then, nearly 60 years ago, I used to go every Tuesday to get fruit and vegetables, and sometimes clothes, because there were other stalls selling useful household items.
Back then we used to get donuts, and for a long time, I had never managed to get back when the market was open to relive those childhood memories.
This trip we do.
The Dandenong Market had changed considerably since the last time I remember it. The building where my eldest son used to play basketball has been turned into a market for meat, fish, and food stalls.
It has grown to be about ten times the size it used to be, making it seem like a difficult task to find the donut van, but we entered by the right entrance, and there it was.
And the donuts?
They were exactly as I remembered.
While we’re in the area, we also made a trip to the Springvale market. When I lived in Victoria, there was no such market; this had only been around since the immigrant Vietnamese have made their home in Springvale, and in places, it reminds you of similar markets in Singapore, Hong Kong, or China.
It was a fascinating half-hour of wandering around, almost feeling like you are somewhere in Southeast Asia.
With markets like these, who would really need a supermarket? And a bonus? The street food.
The Unassuming Gems: Where Inspiration Truly Hides
We’ve all been there. Staring at a blank document, a still canvas, or a silent workshop, the well of inspiration feels utterly dry. We crave that spark, that brilliant idea that will propel us forward, but the world seems stubbornly uncooperative. We might scroll through endless curated feeds, devouring aspirational content, hoping for a lightning strike of genius.
But what if I told you that the most profound inspiration isn’t always found in the dazzling headlines or the perfectly staged Instagram posts? What if it’s often hiding in plain sight, peeking out from the most ordinary corners of our daily lives?
Think about your morning routine. For many of us, it involves a quick flick through the morning newspaper, whether it’s the ink-on-paper variety or the digital equivalent on our smartphones. We skim the headlines, digest the major events, and perhaps glance at the sports scores. It’s a ritual of staying informed, a way to ground ourselves in the present.
And yet, within this seemingly mundane activity, a treasure trove of inspiration can lie waiting. It’s rarely the front page that will send your creative gears whirring. No, the real magic often happens further in, perhaps lurking somewhere at the bottom of page 19.
Imagine it. You’ve finished the main news, perhaps scrolled past a few local announcements you might vaguely care about. Then, your eyes drift to a smaller, less prominent article. It might be a human-interest story about a local baker who’s reinvented a traditional recipe, a brief mention of a community garden overcoming a challenging season, or a quirky report on an unusual local phenomenon.
This is where the gems are. These aren’t the earth-shattering, world-changing events that dominate the front pages. Instead, they are the quiet, the subtle, the unexpected. They are the stories that reveal the resilience of the human spirit, the ingenuity born of necessity, or the simple beauty found in everyday life.
That paragraph at the bottom of page 19 – it doesn’t shout for attention. It doesn’t demand to be noticed. It simply is. And in its unassuming presence, it can offer a completely fresh perspective.
Perhaps the story of the baker sparks a new idea for your own culinary endeavors, or a unique ingredient combination you’d never considered. Maybe the community garden’s struggle and eventual success reminds you of the importance of persistence in your own projects. Or that quirky local report? It might be the perfect quirky detail to inject into your next piece of fiction, or a reminder to embrace the unexpected in your own creative process.
These aren’t grand pronouncements of genius; they are whispers of possibility. They are the seeds of ideas that, with a little nurturing, can blossom into something truly remarkable.
The key is to cultivate a mindset of receptiveness. It’s about looking beyond the obvious, beyond the noise, and being open to what the less-highlighted corners of our world have to offer. It’s about recognizing that inspiration isn’t always a thunderclap; it can also be a gentle breeze, carrying with it the scent of possibility.
So, the next time you find yourself searching for that elusive spark, don’t just skim the headlines. Take a moment. Delve a little deeper. You might just unearth a gem, tucked away at the bottom of page 19. And who knows what wonderful creations it might inspire?
“I’m a Hollywood Writer, So I Put on My Sports Jacket and Take Off My Brain”: Deconstructing Ben Hecht’s Ultimate Industry Satire
“I’m a Hollywood writer, so I put on my sports jacket and take off my brain.”
If you’ve ever spent more than forty-eight hours in a writers’ room, felt the soul-crushing despair of a studio note that asks you to “make the protagonist more likable while also making them entirely unhinged,” or watched a masterpiece get sliced into digital confetti by a focus group, that quote hits you right in the solar plexus.
It is sharp, cynical, hilarious, and dripping with the kind of world-weary exhaustion that only a true veteran of the studio system could muster.
The man behind the quip? Ben Hecht.
Often called the “Shakespeare of Hollywood,” Hecht was a legendary screenwriter, playwright, and journalist who helped shape the Golden Age of cinema. He won the very first Academy Award for Best Original Story (for 1927’s Underworld), wrote or co-wrote stone-cold classics like His Girl Friday, Scarface, and Notorious, and quietly doctored dozens of scripts without credit (including polishing Gone with the Wind).
Yet, despite his immense success and undeniable genius, Hecht maintained a notoriously love-hate relationship with the motion picture industry. His famous sports jacket quote is more than just a snappy punchline; it is a profound commentary on the commodification of art, the absurdity of the studio system, and the psychological armour required to survive as a creative in Tinseltown.
Let’s unpack what Hecht meant, why it still resonates today, and what modern writers can learn from his cynical wisdom.
The Uniform of Compromise: What the Sports Jacket Represents
To understand Hecht’s joke, you have to look at the visual language of Hollywood.
In Hecht’s era—and largely still today—the film industry was a place of stark contrasts. On one side stood the suits: the studio moguls, the producers, and the executives who viewed movies not as high art, but as an assembly-line manufacturing process. On the other side stood the artists: the directors, actors, and writers who often viewed themselves as tortured visionaries.
By joking that he puts on a “sports jacket”—traditionally a casual, slightly corporate, uniform-of-convenience piece of menswear—to “take off his brain,” Hecht is performing a brilliant piece of psychological self-defense.
He is acknowledging the transactional nature of his work. A sports jacket says, “I’m professional enough to take your money, but I’m detached enough not to break my heart when you ruin my scene.”
Putting on the jacket is the physical ritual of putting on the work persona. It is the moment the artist steps out of the realm of pure imagination and enters the boardroom, where imagination is often treated as a liability rather than an asset.
Why Hollywood Demands You “Take Off Your Brain”
Why would a Pulitzer-winning, brilliantly gifted wordsmith feel the need to check his brain at the studio gate?
Because commercial filmmaking—at its worst—is hostile to genuine intellect and originality. Hecht understood a fundamental truth of the studio system: executives rarely want a thinker; they want an obedient problem-solver.
When Hecht implies he takes off his brain, he’s pointing out several classic industry traps:
The Homogenization of Art: Studio notes have a way of filing down the sharp edges of a story until it fits neatly into a demographic-friendly box. If you keep your brain fully engaged, you’ll fight for every nuanced character beat. If you take your brain off, you just nod, smile, and change the third act so the dog doesn’t die.
The Illusion of Effort: In Hollywood, there is often an inverse relationship between how hard you think and how happy the studio is. If you overcomplicate a plot with deep thematic resonance, the executives get confused. And confused executives give terrible notes.
Self-Preservation: Caring too much in Hollywood is a fast track to an ulcer. Hecht was prolific because he treated screenwriting with a certain professional detachment. He knew that pouring your entire soul into a 120-page document only to have a 24-year-old development executive say, “Can we add a talking animal?” is a recipe for madness.
Ben Hecht: The Ultimate Hollywood Mercenary
To truly appreciate the quote, you have to look at Hecht’s paradoxical career.
Hecht was no hack. He was a literary titan. Before moving to Hollywood, he was a star reporter for the Chicago Daily News and a novelist whose books were banned for being too racy. He co-wrote The Front Page, one of the greatest stage comedies about journalism ever produced.
Yet, Hecht had no romantic illusions about the movies. He once famously said of Hollywood: “It’s a place where people die of nostalgia for a place they never were.”
He went to Hollywood explicitly for the money. He famously knocked out scripts with terrifying speed, paid off his debts, bought a luxurious lifestyle, and funded his political activism (including working tirelessly behind the scenes to rescue European Jews during the Holocaust).
Hecht’s sports jacket quote encapsulates his mercenary philosophy. He viewed screenwriting as a trade—a very lucrative, highly entertaining trade, but a trade nonetheless. He kept his “real” brain—his literary soul—reserved for his novels, plays, and journalism, while happily taking studio checks to punch up gangster flicks and screwball comedies.
The Modern Relevance: Does the Sports Jacket Still Fit?
Nearly a century after Hecht’s heyday, his cynical wisdom is more relevant than ever.
Today’s writers face an even more algorithm-driven landscape. Writers’ rooms are increasingly corporatised, IP (Intellectual Property) is king, and “brand synergy” often trumps narrative logic.
If you talk to working writers in streaming or franchise-heavy feature films today, they will tell you that Hecht’s ritual is alive and well. It might not be a literal sports jacket—today, it might be slipping on a pair of noise-cancelling headphones before a Zoom call with twenty executives, or adopting a cheerful tone of voice while secretly plotting how to subtly sneak your thematic message past the censors.
Wearing the metaphorical sports jacket today means learning how to separate your identity from your output. It means realising that a corporate note telling you to “add more action to the first ten minutes” isn’t a personal indictment of your artistic integrity; it’s just the weather in Los Angeles.
How to Wear the Jacket Without Losing Your Mind
Is Hecht’s quote a counsel of despair? Not necessarily. In fact, for modern creatives, it can be deeply liberating.
Here is how you can channel the spirit of Ben Hecht without selling out completely:
Protect Your “Real” Brain: Like Hecht, keep a creative sanctuary for yourself. Write the indie script, pen the personal essay, paint the canvas, or build the passion project where no studio notes can reach you.
Treat It Like a Job (Because It Is): When you put on your professional hat, remember that commercial writing is a collaborative, service-oriented art form. Sometimes, you just need to write the car chase, collect the check, and go home.
Cultivate Professional Detachment: Don’t fall in love with your first draft—or your fifth. Be willing to kill your darlings before an executive does it for you with a chainsaw.
Keep Your Sense of Humour: Hollywood is inherently ridiculous. If you can’t laugh at the absurdity of a notes meeting where three people debate the emotional arc of a CGI raccoon, you won’t survive the town.
Final Thoughts
Ben Hecht’s quip about the sports jacket and the brain is ultimately a survival manual disguised as a punchline. It reminds us that navigating the commercial art world requires a delicate balance: enough professional savvy to play the game, and enough self-awareness not to let the game consume your soul.
So, the next time you log on to a painfully corporate notes call, or stare blankly at a feedback document that asks you to “change the genre from thriller to romantic comedy by tomorrow morning,” just smile, zip up your metaphorical sports jacket, and remember the words of the great Ben Hecht.
Just keep your real brain safe where they can’t touch it.
What’s the most absurd studio note or feedback you’ve ever received? How do you protect your creative soul while working in commercial media? Let’s talk about it in the comments below!
Discover Adelaide’s Best-Kept Secrets: Top 5 Crowd-Free Gems with Unique Charms
Adelaide, nestled in South Australia’s vibrant heart, is a treasure trove of cultural richness and natural beauty. While the city is home to iconic attractions like the Adelaide Zoo and the bustling Rundle Mall, it also harbours lesser-known wonders that promise unforgettable experiences without the crowds. If you’re looking to explore Adelaide’s hidden gems, here are five distinctive spots that are rarely overrun but brimming with charm.
1. Tandanya National Aboriginal Cultural Institute: A Window into Aboriginal Heritage
Tucked away in the city centre, the Tandanya National Aboriginal Cultural Institute is Australia’s oldest and largest Aboriginal-led cultural space. This dynamic museum showcases the art, stories, and traditions of South Australia’s First Nations peoples through immersive exhibitions, from contemporary art to traditional artifacts. Unlike larger, more generic museums, Tandanya offers a deeply authentic cultural experience with a serene atmosphere that draws visitors in for meaningful exploration rather than mere sightseeing.
Why it’s crowd-free: It’s often overlooked by mainstream tourist itineraries, making it a peaceful place to immerse yourself in history and art. Pro tip: Check out their calendar for live performances and workshops for a more interactive visit.
2. Cleland Wildlife Park: Up-Close Encounters with Aussie Fauna
For a unique wildlife adventure, head to Cleland Wildlife Park, just a short drive from Adelaide’s CBD. This sanctuary is home to native species like koalas, kangaroos, and wallabies. Visitors can feed and photograph these creatures in a natural setting, but unlike busier zoos, Cleland’s laid-back vibe and spacious enclosures keep the atmosphere intimate.
Why it’s crowd-free: Mid-week visits or early mornings ensure a quiet experience, with plenty of space to roam and connect with nature. Pro tip: Book a guided tour to learn about conservation efforts and meet nocturnal creatures in their hideaways.
3. Adelaide Gaol: A Glimpse into Dark Historical Days
Step into the shadows of Adelaide’s past at the Adelaide Gaol, a 19th-century prison that held some of Australia’s most notorious figures. This atmospheric site blends eerie history with engaging guided tours, where tales of rebellion, harsh punishment, and resilience come to life. The gaol’s moats and rusted cells offer a tangible connection to South Australia’s colonial legacy.
Why it’s crowd-free: While it’s a historic site, its solemn focus deters mass tourism, making it ideal for history buffs. Pro tip: Opt for the 90-minute “History Tour” to uncover lesser-known stories and enjoy the most in-depth experience.
4. Old Government House: A Quaint Royal Retreat
Set within the lush grounds of the Adelaide Botanic Garden, Old Government House is a charming colonial-era mansion that served as a residence for South Australia’s governors. The building’s neoclassical architecture and manicured gardens offer a tranquil escape, while its hidden history as a “royal retreat” adds intrigue.
Why it’s crowd-free: Tucked inside a crowded attraction, the house and garden are often overlooked by tourists rushing to see the main highlights. Pro tip: Visit during the weekdays to enjoy guided docent tours and the peace of the surrounding rose gardens.
5. Japanese Garden (Adelaide Botanic Garden): A Zen Oasis in the City
Within the sprawling Adelaide Botanic Garden, the Japanese Garden is a serene, minimalist haven filled with koi ponds, maple trees, and sand raked in meditative patterns. Designed in the late 1980s by Hidetori Matsumura, this gem is a perfect spot for reflection or a quiet picnic, far removed from the typical tourist hotspots.
Why it’s crowd-free: Its specific location within the garden and niche appeal ensure a peaceful, crowd-free experience. Pro tip: Bring a sketchbook or a camera—this garden is a photographer’s dream, especially during spring when the blossoms are in full bloom.
Conclusion: Adelaide’s Hidden Treasures Awaits Adelaide’s quieter attractions offer a perfect blend of history, culture, and natural beauty without the hassle of crowds. Whether you’re exploring the Tandanya’s Aboriginal art or savouring the peace of the Japanese Garden, these spots provide a deeper, more personal connection to the city’s soul. So next time you’re in Adelaide, venture off the well-trodden path—these hidden gems are sure to leave a lasting impression.
Respect the environment and local communities by following guidelines, especially in wildlife parks and cultural institutions. Enjoy your journey!
Under by itself is a rather boring word, you know, under the moon, under the sea, under the influence, which is not hard to be if you’ve been hypnotised or after a few drinks.
Under is anything beneath something else.
But let’s add it to some other words like,
Underrated, which means it is better than what others give it credit for.
Underwear is what you would wear underneath your clothes.
An understudy is a person who takes over a lead role when the lead is incapacitated. And how many understudies are guilty of harming the lead to get a big break?
And not get away with it?
Understood: an agreement that might or might not be in writing that something will happen; that is, it is understood that I will be the next president.
Or not. Who on earth would really want to be president of anything?
So in the spirit of trying to confuse everyone all of the time, I have a conundrum in the form of a question: what is the difference between under and underneath?
To me, there is none; you can be under the sea or underneath the sea, or under the table or underneath the table, but then there’s another: you can be under the influence but not underneath the influence, though technically you could, if you wanted to use confusing English.
And, just to add to the confusion further, I can say that the submarine sailed under the sea, underneath the sea, but, in actual fact, it doesn’t.
What is under the sea is the sand, or seabed, and a submarine does not plough its way through the sand, does it?
What we really should be saying is that a submarine moves through the water.
I’d read about out-of-body experiences, and like everyone else, thought it was nonsense. Some people claimed to see themselves in the operating theatre, medical staff frantically trying to revive them, and being surrounded by white light.
I was definitely looking down, but it wasn’t me I was looking at.
It was two children, a boy and a girl, with their parents, in a park.
The boy was Alan. He was about six or seven. The girl was Louise, and she was five years old. She had long red hair and looked the image of her mother.
I remember it now, it was Louise’s birthday and we went down to Bournemouth to visit our Grandmother, and it was the last time we were all together as a family.
We were flying homemade kites our father had made for us, and after we lay there looking up at the sky, making animals out of the clouds. I saw an elephant, Louise saw a giraffe.
We were so happy then.
Before the tragedy.
When I looked again ten years had passed and we were living in hell. Louise and I had become very adept at survival in a world we really didn’t understand, surrounded by people who wanted to crush our souls.
It was not a life a normal child had, our foster parents never quite the sort of people who were adequately equipped for two broken-hearted children. They tried their best, but their best was not good enough.
Every day it was a battle, to avoid the Bannister’s and Archie in particular, every day he made advances towards Louise and every day she fended him off.
Until one day she couldn’t.
Now I was sitting in the hospital, holding Louise’s hand. She was in a coma, and the doctors didn’t think she would wake from it. The damage done to her was too severe.
The doctors were wrong.
She woke, briefly, to name her five assailants. It was enough to have them arrested. It was not enough to have them convicted.
Justice would have to be served by other means.
I was outside the Bannister’s home.
I’d made my way there without really thinking, after watching Louise die. It was like being on autopilot, and I had no control over what I was doing. I had murder in mind. It was why I was holding an iron bar.
Skulking in the shadows. It was not very different from the way the Bannister’s operated.
I waited till Archie came out. I knew he eventually would. The police had taken him to the station for questioning, and then let him go. I didn’t understand why, nor did I care.
I followed him up the towpath, waiting till he stopped to light a cigarette, then came out of the shadows.
“Wotcha got there Alan?” he asked when he saw me. He knew what it was, and what it was for.
It was the first time I’d seen the fear in his eyes. He was alone.
“Justice.”
“For that slut of a sister of yours. I had nuffing to do with it.”
“She said otherwise, Archie.”
“She never said nuffing, you just made it up.” An attempt at bluster, but there was no confidence in his voice.
I held up the pipe. It had blood on it. Willy’s blood. “She may or may not have Archie, but Willy didn’t make it up. He sang like a bird. That’s his blood, probably brains on the pipe too, Archie, and yours will be there soon enough.”
“He dunnit, not me. Lyin’ bastard would say anything to save his own skin.” Definitely scared now, he was looking to run away.
“No, Archie. He didn’t. I’m coming for you. All of you Bannisters. And everyone who touched my sister.”
It was the recurring nightmare I had for years afterwards.
I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the thoughts, the images of Louise, the phone call, the visit to the hospital and being there when she succumbed to her injuries. Those were the very worst few hours of my life.
She had asked me to come to the railway station and walk home with her, and I was running late. If I had left when I was supposed to, it would never have happened and for years afterwards, I blamed myself for her death.
If only I’d not been late…
When the police finally caught the rapists, I’d known all along who they’d be; antagonists from school, the ring leader, Archie Bannister, a spurned boyfriend, a boy whose parents, ubiquitously known to all as ‘the Bannister’s, dealt in violence and crime and who owned the neighbourhood. The sins of the father had been very definitely passed onto the son.
At school, I used to be the whipping boy, Archie, a few grades ahead of me, made a point of belting me and a few of the other boys, to make sure the rest did as they were told. He liked Louise, but she had no time for a bully like him, even when he promised he would ‘protect’ me.
I knew the gang members, the boys who tow-kowed to save getting beaten up, and after the police couldn’t get enough information to prosecute them because everyone was too afraid to speak out, I went after Willy. There was always a weak link in a group, and he was it.
He worked in a factory, did long hours on a Wednesday and came home after dark alone. It was a half mile walk, through a park. The night I approached him, I smashed the lights and left it in darkness. He nearly changed his mind and went the long way home.
He didn’t.
It took an hour and a half to get the names. At first, when he saw me, he laughed. He said I would be next, and that was four words more than he knew he should have said.
When I found him alone the next morning I showed him the iron bar and told him he was on the list. I didn’t kill him then, he could wait his turn, and worry about what was going to happen to him.
When the police came to visit me shortly after that encounter, no doubt at the behest of the Bannister’s, the neighbourhood closed ranks and gave me an ironclad alibi. The Bannister’s then came to visit me and threatened me. I told them their days were numbered and showed them the door.
At the trial, he and his friends got off on a technicality. The police had failed to do their job properly, but it was not the police, but a single policeman, corrupted by the Bannisters.
Archie could help but rub it in my face. He was invincible.
Joe Collins took 12 bullets and six hours to bleed out. He apologized, he pleaded, he cried, he begged. I didn’t care.
Barry Mills, a strong lad with a mind to hurting people, Archie’s enforcer, almost got the better of me. I had to hit him more times than I wanted to, and in the end, I had to be satisfied that he died a short but agonizing death.
I revisited Willy in the hospital. He’d recovered enough to recognize me, and why I’d come. Suffocation was too good for him.
David Williams, second in command of the gang, was as tough and nasty as the Bannisters. His family were forging a partnership with the Bannister’s to make them even more powerful. Outwardly David was a pleasant sort of chap, affable, polite, and well mannered. A lot of people didn’t believe he could be like, or working with, the Bannisters.
He and I met in the pub. We got along like old friends. He said Willy had just named anyone he could think of, and that he was innocent of any charges. We shook hands and parted as friends.
Three hours later he was sitting in a chair in the middle of a disused factory, blindfolded and scared. I sat and watched him, listened to him, first threatening me, and then finally pleading with me. He’d guessed who it was that had kidnapped him.
When it was dark, I took the blindfold off and shone a very bright light in his eyes. I asked him if the violence he had visited upon my sister was worth it. He told me he was just a spectator.
I’d read the coroner’s report. They all had a turn. He was a liar.
He took nineteen bullets to die.
Then came Archie.
The same factory only this time there were four seats. Anna Bannister, brothel owner, Spike Bannister, head of the family, Emily Bannister, sister, and who had nothing to do with their criminal activities. She just had the misfortune of sharing their name.
Archie’s father told me how he was going to destroy me, and everyone I knew.
A well-placed bullet between the eyes shut him up.
Archie’s mother cursed me. I let her suffer for an hour before I put her out of her misery.
Archie remained stony-faced until I came to Emily. The death of his parents meant he would become head of the family. I guess their deaths meant as little to him as they did me.
He was a little more worried about his sister.
I told him it was confession time.
He told her it was little more than a forced confession and he had done nothing to deserve my retribution.
I shrugged and shot her, and we both watched her fall to the ground screaming in agony. I told him if he wanted her to live, he had to genuinely confess to his crimes. This time he did, it all poured out of him.
I went over to Emily. He watched in horror as I untied her bindings and pulled her up off the floor, suffering only from a small wound in her arm. Without saying a word she took the gun and walked over to stand behind him.
“Louise was my friend, Archie. My friend.”
Then she shot him. Six times.
To me, after saying what looked like a prayer, she said, “Killing them all will not bring her back, Alan, and I doubt she would approve of any of this. May God have mercy on your soul.”
Now I was in jail. I’d spent three hours detailing the deaths of the five boys, everything I’d done; a full confession. Without my sister, my life was nothing. I didn’t want to go back to the foster parents; I doubt they’d take back a murderer.
They were not allowed to.
For a month I lived in a small cell, in solitary, no visitors. I believed I was in the queue to be executed, and I had mentally prepared myself for the end.
Then I was told I had a visitor, and I was expecting a priest.
Instead, it was a man called McTavish. Short, wiry, and with an accent that I could barely understand.
“You’ve been a bad boy, Alan.”
When I saw it was not the priest I told the jailers not to let him in, I didn’t want to speak to anyone. They ignored me. I’d expected he was a psychiatrist, come to see whether I should be shipped off to the asylum.
I was beginning to think I was going mad.
I ignored him.
“I am the difference between you living or dying Alan, it’s as simple as that. You’d be a wise man to listen to what I have to offer.”
Death sounded good. I told him to go away.
He didn’t. Persistent bugger.
I was handcuffed to the table. The prison officers thought I was dangerous. Five, plus two, murders, I guess they had a right to think that. McTavish sat opposite me, ignoring my request to leave.
“Why’d you do it?”
“You know why.” Maybe if I spoke he’d go away.
“Your sister. By all accounts, the scum that did for her deserved what they got.”
“It was murder just the same. No difference between scum and proper people.”
“You like killing?”
“No-one does.”
“No, I dare say you’re right. But you’re different, Alan. As clean and merciless killing I’ve ever seen. We can use a man like you.”
“We?”
“A group of individuals who clean up the scum.”
I looked up to see his expression, one of benevolence, totally out of character for a man like him. It looked like I didn’t have a choice.
Trained, cleared, and ready to go.
I hadn’t realized there were so many people who were, for all intents and purposes, invisible. People that came and went, in malls, in hotels, trains, buses, airports, everywhere, people no one gave a second glance.
People like me.
In a mall, I became a shopper.
In a hotel, I was just another guest heading to his room.
On a bus or a train, I was just another commuter.
At the airport, I became a pilot. I didn’t need to know how to fly; everyone just accepted a pilot in a pilot suit was just what he looked like.
I had a passkey.
I had the correct documents to get me onto the plane.
That walk down the air bridge was the longest of my life. Waiting for the call from the gate, waiting for one of the air bridge staff to challenge me, stepping onto the plane.
Two pilots and a steward. A team. On the plane early before the rest of the crew. A group that was committing a crime, had committed a number of crimes and thought they’d got away with it.
Until the judge, the jury and their executioner arrived.
Me.
Quick, clean, merciless. Done.
I was now an operational field agent.
I was older now, and I could see in the mirror I was starting to go grey at the sides. It was far too early in my life for this, but I expect it had something to do with my employment.
I didn’t recognize the man who looked back at me.
It was certainly not Alan McKenzie, nor was there any part of that fifteen-year-old who had made the decision to exact revenge.
Given a choice; I would not have gone down this path.
Or so I kept telling myself each time a little more of my soul was sold to the devil.
I was Barry Gamble.
I was Lenny Buckman.
I was Jimmy Hosen.
I was anyone but the person I wanted to be.
That’s what I told Louise, standing in front of her grave, and trying to apologize for all the harm, all the people I’d killed for that one rash decision. If she was still alive she would be horrified, and ashamed.
Head bowed, tears streamed down my face.
God had gone on holiday and wasn’t there to hand out any forgiveness. Not that day. Not any day.
New York, New Years Eve.
I was at the end of a long tour, dragged out of a holiday and back into the fray, chasing down another scumbag. They were scumbags, and I’d become an automaton hunting them down and dispatching them to what McTavish called a better place.
This time I failed.
A few drinks to blot out the failure, a blonde woman who pushed my buttons, a room in a hotel, any hotel, it was like being on the merry-go-round, round and round and round…
Her name was Silvia or Sandra, or someone I’d met before, but couldn’t quite place her. It could be an enemy agent for all I knew or all I cared right then.
I was done.
I’d had enough.
I gave her the gun.
I begged her to kill me.
She didn’t.
Instead, I simply cried, letting the pent up emotion loose after being suppressed for so long, and she stayed with me, holding me close, and saying I was safe, that she knew exactly how I felt.
How could she? No one could know what I’d been through.
I remembered her name after she had gone.
Amanda.
I remembered she had an imperfection in her right eye.
Someone else had the same imperfection.
I couldn’t remember who that was.
Not then.
I had a dingy flat in Kensington, a place that I rarely stayed in if I could help it. After five-star hotel rooms, it made me feel shabby.
The end of another mission, I was on my way home, the underground, a bus, and then a walk.
It was late.
People were spilling out of the pub after the last drinks. Most in good spirits, others slightly more boisterous.
A loud-mouthed chap bumped into me, the sort who had one too many, and was ready to take on all comers.
He turned on me, “Watch where you’re going, you fool.”
Two of his friends dragged him away. He shrugged them off, squared up.
I punched him hard, in the stomach, and he fell backwards onto the ground. I looked at his two friends. “Take him home before someone makes mincemeat out of him.”
They grabbed his arms, lifted him off the ground and took him away.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a woman, early thirties, quite attractive, but very, very drunk. She staggered from the bar, bumped into me, and finished up sitting on the side of the road.
I looked around to see where her friends were. The exodus from the pub was over and the few nearby were leaving to go home.
She was alone, drunk, and by the look of her, unable to move.
I sat beside her. “Where are your friends?”
“Dunno.”
“You need help?”
She looked up, and sideways at me. She didn’t look the sort who would get in this state. Or maybe she was, I was a terrible judge of women.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Nobody.” I was exactly how I felt.
“Well Mr Nobody, I’m drunk, and I don’t care. Just leave me here to rot.”
She put her head back between her knees, and it looked to me she was trying to stop the spinning sensation in her head.
Been there before, and it’s not a good feeling.
“Where are your friends?” I asked again.
“Got none.”
“Perhaps I should take you home.”
“I have no home.”
“You don’t look like a homeless person. If I’m not mistaken, those shoes are worth more than my weekly salary.” I’d seen them advertised, in the airline magazine, don’t ask me why the ad caught my attention.
She lifted her head and looked at me again. “You a smart fucking arse are you?”
“I have my moments.”
“Have them somewhere else.”
She rested her head against my shoulder. We were the only two left in the street, and suddenly in darkness when the proprietor turned off the outside lights.
“Take me home,” she said suddenly.
“Where is your place?”
“Don’t have one. Take me to your place.”
“You won’t like it.”
“I’m drunk. What’s not to like until tomorrow.”
I helped her to her feet. “You have a name?”
“Charlotte.”
The wedding was in a small church. We had been away for a weekend in the country, somewhere in the Cotswolds, and found this idyllic spot. Graves going back to the dawn of time, a beautiful garden tended by the vicar and his wife, an astonishing vista over hills and down dales.
On a spring afternoon with the sun, the flowers, and the peacefulness of the country.
I had two people at the wedding, the best man, Bradley, and my boss, Watkins.
Charlotte had her sisters Melissa and Isobel, and Isobel’s husband Giovanni, and their daughter Felicity.
And one more person who was as mysterious as she was attractive, a rather interesting combination as she was well over retirement age. She arrived late and left early.
Aunt Agatha.
She looked me up and down with what I’d call a withering look. “There’s more to you than meets the eye,” she said enigmatically.
“Likewise I’m sure,” I said. It earned me an elbow in the ribs from Charlotte. It was clear she feared this woman.
“Why did you come,” Charlotte asked.
“You know why.”
Agatha looked at me. “I like you. Take care of my granddaughter. You do not want me for an enemy.”
OK, now she officially scared me.
She thrust a cheque into my hand, smiled, and left.
“Who is she,” I asked after we watched her depart.
“Certainly not my fairy godmother.”
Charlotte never mentioned her again.
Zurich in summer, not exactly my favourite place.
Instead of going to visit her sister Isobel, we stayed at a hotel in Beethovenstrasse and Isobel and Felicity came to us. Her husband was not with her this time.
Felicity was three or four and looked very much like her mother. She also looked very much like Charlotte, and I’d remarked on it once before and it received a sharp rebuke.
We’d been twice before, and rather than talk to her sister, Charlotte spent her time with Felicity, and they were, together, like old friends. For so few visits they had a remarkable rapport.
I had not broached the subject of children with Charlotte, not after one such discussion where she had said she had no desire to be a mother. It had not been a subject before and wasn’t once since.
Perhaps like all Aunts, she liked the idea of playing with a child for a while and then give it back.
Felicity was curious as to who I was, but never ventured too close. I believed a child could sense the evil in adults and had seen through my facade of friendliness. We were never close.
But…
This time, when observing the two together, something quite out of left field popped into my head. It was not possible, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I thought she looked like my mother.
And Charlotte had seen me looking in their direction. “You seem distracted,” she said.
“I was just remembering my mother. Odd moment, haven’t done so for a very long time.”
“Why now?” I think she had a look of concern on her face.
“Her birthday, I guess,” I said, the first excuse I could think of.
Another look and I was wrong. She looked like Isobel or Charlotte, or if I wanted to believe it possible, Melissa too.
I was crying, tears streaming down my face.
I was in pain, searing pain from my lower back stretching down into my legs, and I was barely able to breathe.
It was like coming up for air.
It was like Snow White bringing Prince Charming back to life. I could feel what I thought was a gentle kiss and tears dropping on my cheeks, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Charlotte slowly lifting her head, a hand gently stroking the hair off my forehead.
And in a very soft voice, she said, “Hi.”
I could not speak, but I think I smiled. It was the girl with the imperfection in her right eye. Everything fell into place, and I knew, in that instant that we were irrevocably meant to be together.
Discover Perth’s Hidden Gems: Top 5 Under-the-Radar Attractions with Unique Charm
Perth, Australia, is often celebrated for its stunning beaches and vibrant culture, but for those seeking quieter, more distinctive experiences, the city and its surroundings harbour lesser-known treasures. These five attractions offer a blend of natural beauty, history, and artistry—without the usual tourist crowds. Perfect for travellers craving serenity and authenticity, here’s where to explore Perth’s hidden side.
1. Bold Park: Eucalyptus Groves and Botanical Wonders
Tucked between the Swan River and the Darling Scarp, Bold Park is a sprawling oasis of 580 hectares of native flora, walking trails, and historic landmarks. While it’s larger than many realize, its size ensures it’s often overlooked by the average tourist. Wander through ancient jarrah and marri forests, or stroll the Daly-Douglas Bridge for panoramic views of the river. The park’s crowning jewel is the Botanic Garden and Perth Zoo, but venture deeper for peaceful spots like the Chinese Garden of Friendship—a tranquil blend of art and horticulture. Bold Park is perfect for picnics, birdwatching, and immersing yourself in WA’s unique ecosystem.
2. South Perth Foreshore: Scenic River Serenity
Just a stone’s throw from the city centre, the South Perth Foreshore offers a picturesque riverside escape. This 2.5-kilometre promenade along the Swan River is ideal for a leisurely walk or bike ride, with breathtaking bridges, art installations, and sweeping views of the city skyline. Unlike the busier northern foreshore, this area is rarely packed, making it a prime spot for yoga, photography, or a quiet sunset. Don’t miss the Hassell Bridge at dusk—its illuminated arches reflect beautifully on the water, creating a postcard-perfect scene.
3. Karrakatta Cemetery: A Garden of History
Step into the past at Karrakatta Cemetery, WA’s original burial ground and a living museum of colonial history. Established in 1829, this peaceful garden cemetery is the resting place of Western Australia’s founding figures, including Premier John Forrest and pioneering women like Lady Frederick Broome. Its serene paths and historic monuments offer a unique glimpse into the region’s past. The cemetery’s ornate design and lush greenery make it a fitting tribute to those who shaped Perth. It’s also a birdwatcher’s haven, with native species thriving in the quiet environment.
4. Perth Institute of Contemporary Arts (PICA): Modern Art with a Side of Serenity
For art lovers, PICA is a must-visit. Located in the heart of Perth, this contemporary art space hosts cutting-edge exhibitions, performances, and installations that often fly under the radar of typical tourist itineraries. The venue’s sleek architecture and thoughtfully curated collections create an atmosphere that’s both inspiring and understated. PICA’s indoor-outdoor spaces and rooftop views of the city add to its charm. With smaller crowds than the Art Gallery of WA, it’s a perfect spot to engage with Australia’s modern art scene at your own pace.
5. Kings Park’s Secret Spots: Beyond the Main Attractions
While Kings Park is Perth’s largest park and a major draw for wildflower season, its lesser-known nooks remain uncrowded. Skip the main lawns and trek to the Pinjarra Hills for peaceful bushwalking or the Garden of Resilience, a 1.5-hectare native plant garden showcasing WA’s environmental efforts. The Culturama (open for three months each spring) offers interactive Indigenous art workshops and a cultural hub with a relaxed vibe. These hidden corners of Kings Park provide a chance to connect with nature and local heritage without the crowds.
Why Explore These Gems?
Perth’s less-crowded attractions often highlight the city’s unique identity—whether through history, art, or natural beauty. By venturing beyond the usual spots, travellers can experience a more intimate side of Western Australia, free from the hustle and bustle of mainstream tourism.
Next time you’re in Perth, take the path less travelled. Discover where eucalyptus groves meet contemporary art, and history mingles with serene landscapes. These hidden spots not only showcase the city’s diversity but also reinforce why Perth is more than just a gateway to the West Australian coast—it’s a destination with layers waiting to be uncovered.
Have you visited any of these underrated attractions? Share your favourite hidden gems in the comments below!
David is a man troubled by a past he is trying to forget.
Susan is rebelling against a life of privilege and an exasperated mother who holds a secret that will determine her daughter’s destiny.
They are two people brought together by chance. Or was it?
When Susan discovers her mother’s secret, she goes in search of the truth that has been hidden from her since the day she was born.
When David realizes her absence is more than the usual cooling off after another heated argument, he finds himself being slowly drawn back into his former world of deceit and lies.
Then, back with his former employers, David quickly discovers nothing is what it seems as he embarks on a dangerous mission to find Susan before he loses her forever.
“I’m a Hollywood Writer, So I Put on My Sports Jacket and Take Off My Brain”: Deconstructing Ben Hecht’s Ultimate Industry Satire
“I’m a Hollywood writer, so I put on my sports jacket and take off my brain.”
If you’ve ever spent more than forty-eight hours in a writers’ room, felt the soul-crushing despair of a studio note that asks you to “make the protagonist more likable while also making them entirely unhinged,” or watched a masterpiece get sliced into digital confetti by a focus group, that quote hits you right in the solar plexus.
It is sharp, cynical, hilarious, and dripping with the kind of world-weary exhaustion that only a true veteran of the studio system could muster.
The man behind the quip? Ben Hecht.
Often called the “Shakespeare of Hollywood,” Hecht was a legendary screenwriter, playwright, and journalist who helped shape the Golden Age of cinema. He won the very first Academy Award for Best Original Story (for 1927’s Underworld), wrote or co-wrote stone-cold classics like His Girl Friday, Scarface, and Notorious, and quietly doctored dozens of scripts without credit (including polishing Gone with the Wind).
Yet, despite his immense success and undeniable genius, Hecht maintained a notoriously love-hate relationship with the motion picture industry. His famous sports jacket quote is more than just a snappy punchline; it is a profound commentary on the commodification of art, the absurdity of the studio system, and the psychological armour required to survive as a creative in Tinseltown.
Let’s unpack what Hecht meant, why it still resonates today, and what modern writers can learn from his cynical wisdom.
The Uniform of Compromise: What the Sports Jacket Represents
To understand Hecht’s joke, you have to look at the visual language of Hollywood.
In Hecht’s era—and largely still today—the film industry was a place of stark contrasts. On one side stood the suits: the studio moguls, the producers, and the executives who viewed movies not as high art, but as an assembly-line manufacturing process. On the other side stood the artists: the directors, actors, and writers who often viewed themselves as tortured visionaries.
By joking that he puts on a “sports jacket”—traditionally a casual, slightly corporate, uniform-of-convenience piece of menswear—to “take off his brain,” Hecht is performing a brilliant piece of psychological self-defense.
He is acknowledging the transactional nature of his work. A sports jacket says, “I’m professional enough to take your money, but I’m detached enough not to break my heart when you ruin my scene.”
Putting on the jacket is the physical ritual of putting on the work persona. It is the moment the artist steps out of the realm of pure imagination and enters the boardroom, where imagination is often treated as a liability rather than an asset.
Why Hollywood Demands You “Take Off Your Brain”
Why would a Pulitzer-winning, brilliantly gifted wordsmith feel the need to check his brain at the studio gate?
Because commercial filmmaking—at its worst—is hostile to genuine intellect and originality. Hecht understood a fundamental truth of the studio system: executives rarely want a thinker; they want an obedient problem-solver.
When Hecht implies he takes off his brain, he’s pointing out several classic industry traps:
The Homogenization of Art: Studio notes have a way of filing down the sharp edges of a story until it fits neatly into a demographic-friendly box. If you keep your brain fully engaged, you’ll fight for every nuanced character beat. If you take your brain off, you just nod, smile, and change the third act so the dog doesn’t die.
The Illusion of Effort: In Hollywood, there is often an inverse relationship between how hard you think and how happy the studio is. If you overcomplicate a plot with deep thematic resonance, the executives get confused. And confused executives give terrible notes.
Self-Preservation: Caring too much in Hollywood is a fast track to an ulcer. Hecht was prolific because he treated screenwriting with a certain professional detachment. He knew that pouring your entire soul into a 120-page document only to have a 24-year-old development executive say, “Can we add a talking animal?” is a recipe for madness.
Ben Hecht: The Ultimate Hollywood Mercenary
To truly appreciate the quote, you have to look at Hecht’s paradoxical career.
Hecht was no hack. He was a literary titan. Before moving to Hollywood, he was a star reporter for the Chicago Daily News and a novelist whose books were banned for being too racy. He co-wrote The Front Page, one of the greatest stage comedies about journalism ever produced.
Yet, Hecht had no romantic illusions about the movies. He once famously said of Hollywood: “It’s a place where people die of nostalgia for a place they never were.”
He went to Hollywood explicitly for the money. He famously knocked out scripts with terrifying speed, paid off his debts, bought a luxurious lifestyle, and funded his political activism (including working tirelessly behind the scenes to rescue European Jews during the Holocaust).
Hecht’s sports jacket quote encapsulates his mercenary philosophy. He viewed screenwriting as a trade—a very lucrative, highly entertaining trade, but a trade nonetheless. He kept his “real” brain—his literary soul—reserved for his novels, plays, and journalism, while happily taking studio checks to punch up gangster flicks and screwball comedies.
The Modern Relevance: Does the Sports Jacket Still Fit?
Nearly a century after Hecht’s heyday, his cynical wisdom is more relevant than ever.
Today’s writers face an even more algorithm-driven landscape. Writers’ rooms are increasingly corporatised, IP (Intellectual Property) is king, and “brand synergy” often trumps narrative logic.
If you talk to working writers in streaming or franchise-heavy feature films today, they will tell you that Hecht’s ritual is alive and well. It might not be a literal sports jacket—today, it might be slipping on a pair of noise-cancelling headphones before a Zoom call with twenty executives, or adopting a cheerful tone of voice while secretly plotting how to subtly sneak your thematic message past the censors.
Wearing the metaphorical sports jacket today means learning how to separate your identity from your output. It means realising that a corporate note telling you to “add more action to the first ten minutes” isn’t a personal indictment of your artistic integrity; it’s just the weather in Los Angeles.
How to Wear the Jacket Without Losing Your Mind
Is Hecht’s quote a counsel of despair? Not necessarily. In fact, for modern creatives, it can be deeply liberating.
Here is how you can channel the spirit of Ben Hecht without selling out completely:
Protect Your “Real” Brain: Like Hecht, keep a creative sanctuary for yourself. Write the indie script, pen the personal essay, paint the canvas, or build the passion project where no studio notes can reach you.
Treat It Like a Job (Because It Is): When you put on your professional hat, remember that commercial writing is a collaborative, service-oriented art form. Sometimes, you just need to write the car chase, collect the check, and go home.
Cultivate Professional Detachment: Don’t fall in love with your first draft—or your fifth. Be willing to kill your darlings before an executive does it for you with a chainsaw.
Keep Your Sense of Humour: Hollywood is inherently ridiculous. If you can’t laugh at the absurdity of a notes meeting where three people debate the emotional arc of a CGI raccoon, you won’t survive the town.
Final Thoughts
Ben Hecht’s quip about the sports jacket and the brain is ultimately a survival manual disguised as a punchline. It reminds us that navigating the commercial art world requires a delicate balance: enough professional savvy to play the game, and enough self-awareness not to let the game consume your soul.
So, the next time you log on to a painfully corporate notes call, or stare blankly at a feedback document that asks you to “change the genre from thriller to romantic comedy by tomorrow morning,” just smile, zip up your metaphorical sports jacket, and remember the words of the great Ben Hecht.
Just keep your real brain safe where they can’t touch it.
What’s the most absurd studio note or feedback you’ve ever received? How do you protect your creative soul while working in commercial media? Let’s talk about it in the comments below!
To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.
But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continued on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.
That, I think, is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much of an idea of where it’s going as the reader does.
It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years. Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?
My private detective, Harry Walthenson
I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mould of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Philip Marlowe, but he’s not.
But I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it. Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.
Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life. I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.
Then there’s the title, like
The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello
The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister. And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.
But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.
Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brothers’ Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then it went the way of the others.
Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and I am at the editor for the last reading.
I have high hopes of publishing it in mid-2026. It even has a cover.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 