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.
Revenge is a dish best served cold – or preferably so when everything goes right
Of course, it rarely does, as Alistair, Zoe’s handler, discovers to his peril. Enter a wildcard, John, and whatever Alistair’s plan for dealing with Zoe was dies with him.
It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.
…
John’s idyllic romance with a woman who is utterly out of his comfort zone is on borrowed time. She is still trying to reconcile her ambivalence after being so indifferent for so long.
They agree to take a break, during which she disappears. John, thinking she has left without saying goodbye, refuses to accept the inevitable and calls on an old friend for help in finding her.
After the mayhem and being briefly reunited, she recognises an inevitable truth: there is a price to pay for taking out Alistair; she must leave and find them first, and he would be wise to keep a low profile.
But keeping a low profile just isn’t possible, and enlisting another friend, a private detective and his sister, a deft computer hacker, they track her to the border between Austria and Hungary.
What John doesn’t realise is that another enemy is tracking him to find her too. It could have been a grand tour of Europe. Instead, it becomes a race against time before enemies old and new converge for what will be an inevitable showdown.
For a road less travelled, explore some of Montevideo’s hidden gems and unique local experiences beyond the main tourist routes:
Unique Local Exploration
Experience Candombe in Palermo or Barrio Sur: Instead of a formal show, witness the authentic candombe music and dance that originates from the descendants of liberated African slaves, recognised by UNESCO as intangible cultural heritage. This is often performed in the streets of the Palermo and Barrio Sur neighbourhoods on Sunday evenings.
Winery Day Trip in Canelones: Venture outside the city to the surrounding Canelones region, known for its wineries and vineyards. Explore local, family-owned bodegas like Bodega Spinoglio or Pizzorno Family Estates for a tour and tasting of the local Tannat wine, offering a more intimate experience than city-centre wine bars.
Discover the Castillo Pittamiglio: Explore this unique architectural landmark, also known as the “Alchemist’s Castle”, a building with an eclectic mix of styles (Gothic, Art Nouveau, etc.) built by an eccentric architect. It offers guided tours and a fascinating, slightly mysterious history, distinct from the city’s neoclassical buildings.
Browse the Feria de Tristán Narvaja: Skip the standard souvenir shops and visit this large, vibrant street market on Sunday mornings in the Cordón neighbourhood. You can find everything from antiques and second-hand books to local crafts, fresh produce, and unique oddities, providing a genuine slice of local life.
Visit the Jardín Botánico: For a peaceful natural escape, the Montevideo Botanical Garden in the Prado neighbourhood is a serene urban oasis. It features diverse plant species, walking trails, and a Japanese garden, and is a great spot to enjoy a quiet picnic or read a book, largely frequented by locals.
It was in darkness. I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door, so I could see to unlock it.
I looked up and saw that the globe was broken.
Instant alert.
I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there. I went to the backup, and it wasn’t there either. Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.
Who?
There were four hiding spots, and all were empty. Someone had removed the weapons. That could only mean one possibility.
I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.
But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbour and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.
Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.
There were three entrances to the villa: the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch. One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage. It was built in the late 1700s by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief. It had a hidden underground room, which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.
It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were in the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely. It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.
The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa, behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground. I moved aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side. After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks. It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that. I’d left torches at either end so I could see.
I closed the door after me and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch. I traversed the short passage, which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end. I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door. It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.
I stepped into the darkness and closed the door.
I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.
Silence, an eerie silence.
I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting. There wasn’t. It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.
I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was. Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.
That raised the question of who told them where I was.
If I were the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan. The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental. But I was not that man.
Or was I?
I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness. My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void. Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly. A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.
Still nothing.
I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job. I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked, and where there would be no escape.
Coming in the front door. If I were not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk in. One shot would be all that was required.
Contract complete.
I sidled quietly up the passage, staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door. There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting. It was an ideal spot to wait.
Crunch.
I stepped on some nutshells.
Not my nutshells.
I felt it before I heard it. The bullet with my name on it.
And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea. I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.
I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me, and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.
Two assassins.
I’d not expected that.
The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part. The second was still breathing.
I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives. Armed to the teeth!
I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian. I was expecting a Russian.
I slapped his face, waking him up. Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down. The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally. He was not long for this earth.
“Who employed you?”
He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile. “Not today, my friend. You have made a very bad enemy.” He coughed, and blood poured out of his mouth. “There will be more …”
Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.
I would have to leave. Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess. I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.
Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally. I was trying not to connect the dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.
A half-hour passed, and I hadn’t moved. Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.
Until I heard a knock on my front door.
Two thoughts: it was either the police, alerted by the neighbours, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?
I stood and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm. I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.
If it were the police, this was going to be a difficult situation. Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.
No police, just Maria. I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.
“You left your phone behind on the table. I thought you might be looking for it.” She held it out in front of her.
When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”
I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”
I looked at my arm and realised it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.
“You need to go away now.”
Should I tell her the truth? It was probably too late, and if she were any sort of law-abiding citizen, she would go straight to the police.
She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity. “What happened?”
I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible. I went with the truth. “My past caught up with me.”
“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss. It doesn’t look good.”
“I can fix it. You need to leave. It is not safe to be here with me.”
The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened. She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.
I opened the door and let her in. It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences. Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge. She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.
I expected her to scream. She didn’t.
She gave me a good, hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous. Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about. She would have to go to the police.
“What happened here?”
“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me. I used to work for the Government, but no longer. I suspect these men were here to repay a debt. I was lucky.”
“Not so much, looking at your arm.”
She came closer and inspected it.
“Sit down.”
She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.
“Do you have medical supplies?”
I nodded. “Upstairs.” I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs. Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.
She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back. I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed, though I was not sure why it might interest her.
She helped me remove my shirt and then cleaned the wound. Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet. It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.
When she’d finished, she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”
No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.
“Alisha?”
“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you. She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”
“That was wrong of her to do that.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Will you call her?”
“Yes. I can’t stay here now. You should go now. Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”
Crafting Epic Bloodlines: How to Use Real Genealogy to Build a Multi-Generation Book Series
How to Build a Book Dynasty Series Using Real Genealogy Meta Description: Writing a multi-generation book series? Discover how studying real family trees and genealogy can help you plot realistic time intervals, family dynamics, and historical ties.
When you set out to write a book series that spans generations—whether it’s a sweeping historical epic, a multigenerational sci-fi saga, or a sprawling fantasy family curse—you aren’t just plotting a story. You are playing the role of God, historian, and architect rolled into one.
You have to create a dynasty.
And building a believable, breathing dynasty is harder than it looks. It’s easy to fall into the trap of treating descendants like interchangeable action figures, or worse, messing up the timeline so drastically that a grandmother and granddaughter end up looking like college roommates.
So, how do you fix this? Where do you find the blueprint for generational momentum?
The secret weapon hiding in plain sight is genealogy. By studying real family trees—especially your own ancestry—you can unlock the secret rhythms of time, inheritance, and human connection that will make your fictional dynasty feel startlingly real.
Here is how to use real genealogy as a masterclass in world-building for your next multi-novel series.
1. Stealing Time: Mapping Realistic Intervals
One of the biggest pitfalls in writing a multi-generational series is temporal whiplash. Authors often guess how time passes between generations, leading to biological impossibilities or unnatural pacing.
Real genealogy solves this by providing hard, empirical data on human biology and historical timelines.
The Math of Motherhood: Historically, women didn’t have children evenly spaced every ten years; generations often clustered tightly or stretched wide depending on war, famine, and economics. Look at your own family tree. Notice the average age at which women had their first child, and when the last child was born.
The “Generation Gap”: In the 19th century, a new generation might arrive every 20 to 25 years because people married and started families much younger. In modern times, that stretch often pushes past 30. Aligning your fictional timeline with realistic biological intervals prevents your characters from aging too fast—or suspiciously slow.
Leapfrogging Eras: Genealogy teaches you about overlap. Did a grandfather live long enough to meet his grandson, or did he pass away a decade before the child was even born? That gap creates built-in narrative tension: characters shaped by the ghosts of ancestors they never physically met.
2. Uncovering the Ties That Bind (and Break)
Real families are messy. When you look back at census records, immigration papers, and old wills, you start to see patterns of human behaviour that no plotting manual can teach you.
When building your fictional dynasty, ask yourself what historical forces are pulling your ancestors—and by extension, your characters—together or tearing them apart:
The Economics of Inheritance: Look at old property deeds or probate records. Who got the land? Who got cut out? Financial pressure is the engine of family drama. In your series, how does the passing of an estate change the power dynamics between siblings in Book 2 versus Book 4?
Forced Migration and Diaspora: Did your ancestors move across countries or continents? What triggered it? Was it a potato famine, a gold rush, or a shifting border? Use these real-world catalysts to drive your characters across your fictional map. A dynasty isn’t born in a vacuum; it is shaped by geography and displacement.
The Black Sheep and Forgotten Branches: Every family tree has a branch that simply disappears from the records—someone who ran away to sea, changed their last name, or was disowned. These historical mysteries are goldmines for fiction. In a multi-novel series, a “lost” ancestor from Book 1 can become the inciting incident or the mysterious benefactor in Book 5.
3. Genetics, Culture, and the “Ghost” of the Ancestor
In a long-running book series, characters need to feel like they belong to the same lineage, even if they never share a page together. Genealogy gives you the tools to weave cultural and genetic DNA through your cast.
Recurring Naming Conventions: Look at real family trees, and you’ll notice names recycling every generation—the eldest son is always a Thomas, or middle daughters are named after grandmothers. Doing this in fiction creates an immediate subconscious link for the reader. When Book 3 features a fierce, rebellious character named Elinor II, the reader instantly remembers the original Elinor from the founding novel.
Generational Trauma and Triumph: Real-world genealogy often reveals overarching themes. One branch of the family might consistently marry into military families, while another works the land for centuries. Use these ancestral echoes in your writing. If the founding patriarch was a liar and a cheat, how does that “stain” manifest in the great-great-granddaughter three books down the line? Is she desperately trying to overcompensate, or is it in her blood?
How to Start Your Research (Even If You Aren’t Writing Historical Fiction)
You might be thinking: “My series is high fantasy with dragons; how does my great-grandfather’s immigration record help me?”
The setting changes, but the human element does not.
Build a Fictional Family Tree First: Before you write a single chapter of Book 1, map out four or five generations of your dynasty. Use genealogy software (like Ancestry, Scrivener’s corkboard, or even a giant piece of butcher paper) to track births, deaths, marriages, and major life events.
Consult Your Own Past: Pull up your own family tree or talk to older relatives. Ask them about the family lore. What was the biggest scandal? Who lost the family fortune? Who was the black sheep? Truth is almost always stranger—and more creatively inspiring—than fiction.
Impose Historical Pressure Points: Just as real families had to navigate wars, depressions, and industrial revolutions, your fictional families must navigate the magical equivalents: the breaking of a covenant, a shifting pantheon, an economic collapse driven by new technology, or a plague.
The Payoff: A Dynasty That Feels Alive
When readers invest in a multi-novel series, they want to feel the weight of history. They want to see how the choices made by a desperate ancestor in a dusty prologue ripple forward to alter the fate of a panicked descendant in the explosive finale.
By turning to genealogy—by studying how real people lived, loved, migrated, and died across the spans of time—you stop guessing. You start building a bloodline that feels heavy, authentic, and utterly unforgettable.
Now, open up your family tree, look at the gaps in the timeline, and start writing your epic.
My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.
I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.
Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.
Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility that the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.
The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.
I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.
The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the clientele the hotel attracted.
I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’, but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.
Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?
Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.
There was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and keeping an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.
The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.
As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.
There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.
With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.
A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him he was not the concierge, and instead he brushed past me like I wasn’t there.
He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.
Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.
I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position, then clunked when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the lift lobby, only what was in the direction of the car entrance.
The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.
“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”
Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”
“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”
He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.
Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.
“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”
“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”
“Good. Let’s go over to the desk and see what we can do for you.”
I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.
“Name of guest, sir?”
“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.
She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”
Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”
Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”
An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.
“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”
Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”
Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”
I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.
“No.”
“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”
She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”
“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.
“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”
I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”
She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.
The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”
“No. You have more than you can know.”
“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”
“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”
Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.
I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.
I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.
The trouble is, there are also 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.
An interrogation and a revelation.
…
I think I just about reached that same conclusion just seconds before she uttered it. But, I didn’t think this was the time to air my own thoughts on the matter.
The question I did ask was, “It appears our service has been compromised.”
She glanced at me almost condescendingly. “It appears so. Have you got your cell phone?”
I had it with me and gave it to her. I had it ready because I knew they would ask for it. It had a record of orders given, and phone conversations made, before, during, and after the operation.
For a review, or in this case, a search for the guilty.
I watched her put in the passcode, and go to the messages, and bring up the one sent to me, to attend the briefing. It was all in order, no different to the previous five, with all the right designations and protocols.
“There was no reason to suspect it was anything but a real callout.”
Another glance at the screen, she put it on the desk next to the file. “No, it looks real enough.”
Thought best kept to myself; how the hell did someone outside our organisation, know so well our inner workings? I wanted to ask the question but refrained from doing so.
It also explained, now that I thought about it, the reason why the target had said he was one of us. We had been hunting him so someone else, and enemy organisation perhaps, so they could kill him. The question was, why? Had he made a discovery, the evidence he was referring to that a certain Alfred Nobbin might have.
Perhaps a good idea, for the time being, to keep that snippet of information to myself. After all, this new person in front of me could be one of Severin’s people.
Where I was sitting was not a familiar place to me, though I had been to the building before, which is why I knew where to go for this interview. AS for the people, everyone I’d met so far, other than the other team members, bar one, I’d known from training.
So, now another expected question from me, or at least, if I was on the other side of the table, it’s one I’d expect to be asked. “Just who was I working for, if it was not for us?”
Assuming she was one of us.
“That’s what we intend to find out. Who was the target?”
I gave her the description we’d been given, and a copy of his photograph that had been circulated at the briefing. I’d kept one of them, and luckily no one noticed it missing. It was fortuitous that’s I’d copied the photo before I had to give it to her, which was right then.
There was not a flicker of recognition in her eyes.
“So, not one of us?” I asked.
For an interrogation, she wasn’t asking many relevant questions.
She looked up. “Why would you say that, if your mission was to keep him under surveillance?”
“Which we now know was not sanctioned, so we have to assume that we had been persuaded to find and track one of our own agents. You look as though you didn’t recognise him?”
“I don’t try to remember every agent we have in the field, here and overseas. There a few too many for that. But I’ve got a request out for his identity. He didn’t say who he was?”
“No.”
“Anything at all that might be useful?”
“That he was one of us, who’d made a mistake, and feared we’d set the dogs on him.”
“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.
When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact that his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.
From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.
There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just several small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, point to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.
Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints at impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovers piece by piece, damning evidence that she is about to leave him for another man.
Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?
Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?
Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence are about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
…
The Ormiston’s from the papers
…
It was a question of what was I looking for. It would be easy to say I wanted a piece of paper that definitively said where the treasure was or finding a map that led straight to it.
Instead, there was, in one box, a dozen journals filled with the ramblings of a madman.
Searching for treasure had sent Ormiston senior mad. For an hour, perhaps longer, I tried to decipher the spidery writing, and then gave up when it switched to German.
I assembled the journals in order of his expeditions and found the first easy to follow because it was a time of excitement and expectation, that he would find the treasure. There were pages on exactly what he thought the treasure was worth, the sort of pieces they would find, and what he would do with the proceeds.
There were drawings of items off the map and his interpretation of what they represented. It was a rather good description of the coastline and its anomalies as they related to map landmarks. They were, almost all, the same as the Boggs interpretations.
When the discovery didn’t happen, when the first euphoria wore off and the search became bogged down in acrimony and arguments, and the realization the map they were using was not as clear as first believed, that was where it all began to fall apart.
Reading the words, feeling the disappointment seeping off the page, it must have been quite a blow.
The second expedition didn’t start off with the same fanfare, but almost as if they were expected to fail. Too little time had been spent analyzing what went wrong and reidentifying the coastal landmarks.
And, when it did fail, the last comment in the diary was fairly succinct. “What if there is no treasure?”
In another, scrawled heavily on several pages at the back, “look for the big A” was repeated several times, and much underlined.
There were five other boxes with papers, charts, notebooks, and books that belonged on a shelf but instead were neatly stacked. They’d been in the boxes for some time, and had that aroma books got when left in the damp too long, and, in fact, when I tried to open some, the pages had stuck together.
A lot of the books were about pirates, reference texts, and fiction. Part of one box was set aside for our particular pirate, and, reading through what could be read, a lot of the information was contradictory. One book postulated that the said pirate wasn’t a pirate at all, casting doubt on whether he ever existed at all.
The maps were a different story, and, yes, they were all similar except for small details an observation I had made before. None had what I would have called ‘new’ features, just a rehash of all the others. Some were old, but most had the appearance of being made to look old.
Then, at the bottom of a box of books, were copies of newspaper articles, aged, stained, and some in various stages of disintegration. The Bahama Argus, The Barbadian, The Antigua Herald and Gazette, The Bermuda Colonist, and the Dominica Chronicle. All had references to Captain Johannsson, and his vessel, the Sea Serpent.
There was such a Captain, and there was such a ship, and there were reports of a vessel roving the seas, looking for prey. And those reports covered a great deal of plunder, definitely the sort that would find its way into a number of sea chests.
But, was this the treasure that Ormiston believed was hidden somewhere in The Grove?
Something caught my attention on the first diary, the way it sat and the light reflected off it, and picking it up and looking at it showed no anomaly in the surface, not until it sat on a certain angle and in the sunlight.
A slight ripple down one edge of the spine, and with careful probing, there was a split in the material of the cover pasted back down, but in the time since it had been glued back, the glue had dissolved and the simple act of picking the book up and parted the split.
Lifting it gently, I could see a piece of paper tucked in and gently coaxed it out.
It was very thin and fragile, but the writing was clear. Entries from what might have been a logbook. I knew this only because I had been out of a sailing boat once when at school, and had seen the boat’s logbook, noting where the boat had been.
This page had only a few entries, the location of its departure, in latitude and longitude, a number of the daily distances traveled, and conditions, and the last, another latitude and longitude.
When I put the first coordinates into my GPS, it was near the island of Antigua, and then the destination, just up the coast near the old mall. The name of the vessel, in almost illegible writing, the Sea Serpent.
So, there was a logbook, although it might not exist now, it did at some point in the past, and Ormiston had either found it or seen it. The writing on the piece of paper was his. It proved, if it was authentic, there was a ship, and it did come to this coast.
I carefully folded it and hid it in my wallet, then replaced everything where I found it. Enough research for today. I tried not to look guilty when I left.
It’s like working in two offices, one uptown, and one downtown.
I have two blogs, this one, and another which is purely for writing, and generally, a lot of starts and not a lot of finishes. I get ideas, and it’s a place to store them, and give a few people some amusement at my, sometimes, improbable situations and far-fetched stories.
Here I try to be more serious.
I have the ceiling, the cinema of my dreams. Here anything is possible, like jumping from a helicopter about to explode, and survive, and get out of a sinking ship, like Houdini. Of course, there is always one time when it doesn’t work, and Houdini knows that all too well.
Over there, I have a series which I started here, long ago, where I take a photograph and write a story inspired by it. The interesting thing about that is I could probably use the same photograph over and over, and it would inspire a different tale.
I know, if I was running a writing class, everyone would see that photograph differently.
But what amazes me sometimes is the fact the story is not directly related to the theme. It got me thinking about how we view our experiences, and what triggers memories. I’ve discovered that it doesn’t necessarily happen by correlation, say, for instance, a memory of being in New York might be triggered by a visit to a cafe in Cloncurry.
I try to do one of these every day, but sometimes it’s hard work. Writing itself can be some days, particularly when the words are lurking there, behind that invisible, impenetrable, rock wall.
OK, so I’m stuck in the middle of writing a piece over there, and I’ve come over here to whinge.
But, enough. I’ll let you know what the cinema of my dreams is showing, later.
What Raymond Chandler’s Life, Style, and Philip Marlowe Teach Us About Storytelling
…
When you think of classic American crime fiction, the name that instantly flickers to mind is Raymond Chandler – the heavyweight champion of hard‑boiled noir whose razor‑sharp prose still feels fresh after more than eighty years. Chandler didn’t just write detective stories; he invented a literary atmosphere that turned a gritty, rain‑slick Los Angeles into a character in its own right and gave us the unforgettable gumshoe Philip Marlowe.
But behind the sleek dialogues and smoky tavern scenes lay a life riddled with missteps, self‑destruction, and surprising twists. By digging into Chandler’s history, his flaws, and his unmistakable style, we can extract timeless lessons for writers, marketers, and anyone who wants to make an impact with words.
1. A Rocky Road to the Pen
Milestone
What Happened
Why It Matters
Early Years (1888‑1912)
Born in Chicago, moved to Colorado, a peripatetic childhood. Lost his mother at 12 and was sent to live with relatives in England.
Early displacement instilled a sense of alienation that later seeped into his urban landscapes.
Oil‑Field Engineer (1912‑1932)
Spent two decades drilling in Texas and Mexico, clashing with corporate bureaucracy and the harsh desert.
The “outsider‑against‑system” mindset is a core theme in his novels.
World War I Service
Served in the U.S. Army, briefly, then returned to the oil business.
Experience with hierarchy and authority fed his scepticism of power.
The Downward Spiral (1932‑1934)
The Great Depression wrecked the oil market; Chandler’s marriage collapsed. He turned to alcohol, gambling, and a series of odd jobs.
The personal chaos sharpened his eye for the darker side of human nature—fuel for the noir aesthetic.
Breakthrough with The Big Sleep (1939)
At 49, Chandler finally published his first novel, introducing Marlowe.
Proved it’s never too late to start a successful second career.
Takeaway: Chandler’s path to literary fame wasn’t a straight line. It was a series of failures, relocations, and personal battles that forced him to confront his own darkness. For creators, this teaches that authentic storytelling often springs from lived adversity—the harder the journey, the richer the material.
2. The Signature Chandler Style
a. The “Hard‑Boiled” Voice
Economy of Language: Chandler favoured short, punchy sentences that carried weight. Example: “She was a cheap, cheap girl, and the cheapness rubbed off on the rest of us.”
Wry Similes & Metaphors: He turned ordinary observations into unforgettable images. Example: “He looked as if he’d been run over by a train and then dragged through a sandstorm.”
Moral Ambiguity: The lines between good and evil are blurred; even the hero has flaws.
b. Los Angeles as a Character
Concrete Details: From neon signs to desert highways, Chandler painted the city with a painter’s precision.
Atmospheric Consistency: Rain, fog, and darkness aren’t just weather—they’re mood setters that echo the protagonist’s inner turmoil.
c. Dialogue That Cuts
Witty Banter: Conversations feel like chess matches—each line a strategic move.
Understatement: Frequently, what isn’t said speaks louder than the spoken word.
Takeaway: Chandler’s style is a masterclass in restraint. He shows us that brevity, vivid imagery, and a strong sense of place can create a world that feels larger than the sum of its pages.
3. Philip Marlowe: The Archetype That Still Resonates
Trait
How Chandler Crafted It
Modern Echo
World‑Weary Cynic
Marlowe narrates with a mix of sarcasm and weary empathy.
Anti‑heroes in film/TV (e.g., Breaking Bad, The Wire).
Moral Compass
Despite his jaded outlook, Marlowe adheres to an internal code of honour.
Brands that position themselves as “honest rebels” (e.g., Patagonia).
Lone Wolf
He operates alone, sceptical of institutions.
Freelance creatives, solopreneurs, and “maker” culture.
Sharp Observational Skills
He notices the smallest details—a stray cigarette, a shaky handshake.
Data‑driven marketers who derive insight from micro‑behaviors.
Marlowe’s lasting appeal lies in his human contradictions: tough yet tender, cynical yet idealistic. He’s a reminder that complex, flawed protagonists are far more compelling than flawless heroes.
4. What We Can Learn From Chandler’s Legacy
1. Embrace Your “Not‑So‑Great” Past
Your setbacks are a goldmine for narrative tension. Chandler turned his own bitterness into a voice that resonated with millions.
Practical tip: Keep a “failure journal.” Record moments that felt humiliating or painful; later, mine them for raw material.
2. Cultivate a Distinct Atmosphere
Whether you’re writing a novel or drafting a brand story, the setting is a silent storyteller.
Practical tip: Before writing, create a sensory map: list five smells, three sounds, and two visual motifs that define your world.
3. Write With the Economy of a Detective’s Pistol
Every word should earn its place. Trim the fluff, sharpen the similes, and let subtext do the heavy lifting.
Exercise: Take a paragraph you love and rewrite it using 30% fewer words without losing meaning.
4. Give Your Hero a Moral Compass, Even If It’s Bent
Audiences crave characters who stand for something, even if that something is a personal code that defies society.
Implementation: Define your protagonist’s “one rule they’ll never break” and let it guide every decision.
5. Let Dialogue Do the Detective Work
Bad dialogue is a dead giveaway of lazy writing. Let characters reveal plot, personality, and tension through how they speak—not just what they say.
Practice: Write a scene where two characters talk about a crime without mentioning the word “crime” at all.
5. Bringing It All Home: Your Own Noir Blueprint
Step
Action
Outcome
1. Harvest Personal Grit
List three moments of personal failure.
Source of authentic conflict.
2. Choose a “City”
Identify a physical or metaphorical setting that mirrors your theme.
Creates immersive atmosphere.
3. Define the Hero’s Code
Write a one‑sentence creed for your protagonist.
Anchors moral ambiguity.
4. Draft with a “Marlowe Lens”
Write every scene as if you’re a detective observing details.
Boosts vividness and tension.
5. Polish for Punch
Cut words, sharpen similes, test dialogue for subtext.
Delivers Chandler‑style impact.
Final Thoughts
Raymond Chandler’s journey from oil‑field engineer to the reigning monarch of noir proves that a writer’s personal turbulence can become a powerhouse of creativity. His blend of hard‑boiled prose, atmospheric detail, and a morally complex hero continues to shape everything from modern crime thrillers to brand narratives that crave authenticity.
If you can channel Chandler’s willingness to stare into his own darkness, harness it into a distinctive voice, and give your audience a world they can see, smell, and feel, you’ll not just write a story—you’ll craft an experience that endures.
Take a page from the master: own your scars, paint your city, and let your protagonist walk the line between the shadows and the light. The result? A story that, like Chandler’s, never truly fades.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 