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In a word: Incline

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then…

Are you inclined to go?

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

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

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

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

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Writing about writing a book – Day 2

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

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

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

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

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

Right now.

I pick up the pen.

Character number one:

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

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

He had a wife, which brings us to,

Character number two:

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

Character number three:

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

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

Character number four:

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

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

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

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

PIWalthJones1

An excerpt from the book:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

A to Z – April – 2026 – N

N is for – Never trust those nice guys

…

If something is too good to be true, then it generally is. Those words bounced around in my head only moments after the winner of the award had been announced.

And it wasn’t me. I had worked hard, done everything that was asked of me, and yet at the eleventh hour, I had been usurped

Of course, I had only myself to blame.

Some other words that rattled around in what could probably now be called an empty space, because no sane person would have believed that McGurk was a worthy recipient, were good guys come last.

They did.

I have been too trusting.

I wanted to believe that McGurk honestly wanted to help me win, but all the time, he was getting the information needed to win the award for himself.

After all, the prize was worth a million pounds.

And he was never going to stay long enough to show them anything for the money. The proposal was slick, the pitch was slick, and the man himself was slick personified.

However, one item I did know about him was that he had done this before. A number of times, and after each success, he disappeared with the money and wasn’t seen again.

It was exactly what he would do this time if we let him.

Everyone was also oblivious to the deception. He was far too affable, far too obliging, far too kind. And too accommodating. He was everybody’s friend.

Except mine.

Jason McMaster, the head of the selection committee, came over to offer his commiserations.

“Sorry, old boy,” he began, “but it was a close call, 4 to 5. You put in a brilliant prospectus, but the numbers didn’t quite add up.”

No, they didn’t do, they. I noticed far too late that someone had slipped in a revised budget, and it had the look of a grade six student’s horrible attempt to balance a small budget.

I had tried to fix it, but the committee decided the submissions would be as is, where is. I knew McGurk had a hand in getting those papers, and I was sure it was someone on the selection team who helped him. Without proof, I was not going to change the result.

At least one of the members dared to tell me what had happened and not be shocked on the night.

Evelyn had worked as hard as I had, and it seemed to me he had not approached her. Perhaps she would have seen him for what he was. More than once, she told me to be wary.

Like I said, it was on me.

…

McGurk was in his element, the centre of attention, soaking up the adulation as the man who had beaten the sure thing.

Some people didn’t like me, not many, because what they mistook for determination was really the desire to be fair and equitable.

His acceptance speech was the sort to be expected, praising the competition, acknowledging the help I’d given him, and stating that he was going to make a lot of people’s futures much brighter.

I was not sure who those people were, because no one in this county would.

After shaking the selection committee’s hands and thanking them all, he wandered over to see me.

He was brave or stupid, I wasn’t sure which, but then he didn’t know what I knew.

“You do realise the race was over before it began.” He was all smiles and shaking my hand for the cameras.

I was all smiles for a different reason. “Not at first, but I did get a sense of it towards the end.”

“You didn’t seem to be all that well-liked.”

No. I got that. Alfred Knopper, next door neighbour and staunch enemy when I won the council election over him, was on the committee.

I should have tried harder to win him over.

“Happens in small towns. You can’t please everyone all of the time. You will discover that. “

“I’m sure I won’t. I understood the brief.”

I smiled. “I hope you do.”

I could see Evelyn coming over, and so could he. Her face was set, and I could feel the heat from where I was standing. So he could and excused himself.

Her eyes followed him as he retreated.

“Snake.”

“He’s the one they deserve.”

“No one deserves a creature like that.”

I shrugged. “Well, like him or lump him, he’s all they’ve got.”

Until he cashed the check.

A week is a long time in politics, or so I was told the first time I ran for council.

I didn’t want to, but a lot of people said that it was time for a change.

I rode the crest of that wave of change for three terms, after which those same people voted for another change. It didn’t bother me. I had tried to be fair and equitable, but not everybody’s definition of those words was the same.

I tried to please all of the people all of the time and failed miserably.

We lived in a different world from the one I thought I knew.

It was time to move on, and the plans Evelyn and I had made a few months before, plan B, were in motion. The children had moved on. We had sold the house, where I had lived my whole life and my father before me.

All I was waiting for was…

…

The phone rang, its shrill insistence penetrating the fog of sleep, and only years of training forced me to answer it.

“Yes.”

“He’s gone.” Jason McMaster sounded panicked.

“Who has gone?”

“McGurk. Office cleaned out, residence as clean as the day he walked into it.”

McMaster had been very generous in giving him the house rent-free until he was settled.

“The funding.”

Silence. Then, “It’s not in the corporate account.”

Of course not.

“It was transferred to a Cayman Islands bank.”

“You called them?”

“Transferred to a JN Corporation, a shell company. It’s going to take an army of forensic accountants to find it, and McGurk, if that’s his real name.”

It wasn’t, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.

“Why are you telling me?”

“The selection committee asked me to ask you to come back and maintain continuity while we sort this mess out.”

“Too late. I’m off on holiday this morning. Time to take a break from everything.”

“Then in a few weeks, when you get back. We’ll talk.”

“Can’t. Not coming back. Not getting the award settled a few things for me, and the main one was our future. Twelve months in a cottage in Tuscany and then, well, who knows. Have a nice life, Jason.”

I hung up.

Evelyn rolled over. “McGurk?”

“Not at the office for his first day.”

“Jason?”

“Nearly hysterical. He went to the house, and there’s no sign he had ever been there.”

“McGurk wasn’t. He’s been dead since the day after he was born, but Michael Oliphant, that’s a different story.”

“Is that his real name?”

“So Viktor told me. Took three days, but he broke him. They all break eventually.”

“And the money.”

“It’ll be in Geneva by the time we get there. Now, come back to bed.”

…

‘Sunday in New York’ – A beta reader’s view

I’m not a fan of romance novels but …

There was something about this one that resonated with me.

This is a novel about a world generally ruled by perception, and how people perceive what they see, what they are told, and what they want to believe.

I’ve been guilty of it myself, as I’m sure we all have at one time or another.

For the main characters, Harry and Alison, other issues are driving their relationship.

For Alison, it is a loss of self-worth through losing her job and from losing her mother and, in a sense, her sister.

For Harry, it is the fact that he has a beautiful and desirable wife, his belief that she is the object of other men’s desires, and, in particular, his immediate superior’s.

Between observation, the less-than-honest motives of his friends, a lot of jumping to conclusions based on very little fact, and you have the basis of one very interesting story.

When it all comes to a head, Alison finds herself in a desperate situation, and she realises only the truth will save their marriage.

But is it all the truth?

What would we do in similar circumstances?

Rarely does a book have me so enthralled that I could not put it down until I knew the result. They might be considered two people who should have known better, but as is often the case, they had to get past what they both thought was the truth.

And the moral of this story, if it could be said there is one, is that nothing is ever what it seems.

…

Available on Amazon here: amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 89

Day 89 – Writing as a lifeline

…

Writing Saved My Life: What Judd Apatow’s Confession Teaches Us About the Power of the Pen

“Writing saved my life. Without writing, I would never have been able to make it in this world.”
— Judd Apatow

When a Hollywood heavyweight like Judd Apatow says that writing rescued him from the brink, the words echo far beyond the glitz of red‑carpet parties and box‑office numbers. They land squarely in the everyday lives of anyone who’s ever felt stuck, unheard, or desperate for a way out. In this post, we’ll unpack what Apatow meant, trace the arc of his own story, and explore how writing can be a lifeline—whether you’re a budding comic, a corporate professional, or simply someone looking for a little more meaning.

1. The Man Behind the Quote: A Brief (But Insightful) Biography

Judd Apatow grew up in a tiny Boston suburb with a single mother who worked as a school secretary. He was an introvert who spent most of his teenage years in front of a computer, typing jokes for early online forums and scribbling jokes on the backs of school worksheets. By his early twenties, he’d moved to Los Angeles, where “making it” meant working as a production assistant on sitcoms and writing unpaid spec scripts that never saw the light of day.

His break came with The Ben Stiller Show (1993), a modest sketch comedy program that, although short‑lived, earned an Emmy for Outstanding Writing. From there, he built a legendary career: Freaks and Geeks (1999), The 40‑Year‑Old Virgin (2005), Knocked Up (2007), The Big Sick (2017) – a string of projects that have defined modern American comedy.

What’s striking is not just the commercial success but the emotional trajectory. Apatow has spoken openly about depression, anxiety, and the feeling of being an outsider in an industry that revels in its own superficiality. Writing—first as a private coping mechanism, later as a public craft—was his rope out of the abyss. He didn’t just write jokes; he wrote himself into existence.

2. Why Writing Can Be a Lifeline

2.1. It Gives Voice to the Unspoken

When we write, we externalise thoughts that otherwise swirl inside our heads. For Apatow, jokes were a way to translate inner turmoil (“I’m terrified of growing up”) into something funny that others could relate to. That translation is a validation loop: the more we articulate, the more we realise we’re not alone.

2.2. It Provides Structure Amid Chaos

A story requires a beginning, middle, and end. Even the most disordered feelings can be arranged into a narrative arc. By forcing our mental clutter into plot points, we regain a sense of control. Apatow’s early scripts—though never filmed—were essentially practice runs for reorganising a chaotic mind into a coherent, comedic rhythm.

2.3. It Lets You Reframe Pain

Psychologists refer to this as cognitive reframing. When you convert a painful memory into a scene in a screenplay, you can add distance (the “camera lens”) and humour (the “punchline”). The trauma doesn’t disappear, but it becomes manageable. Apatow’s “You’re the Best!” scene from Knocked Up—a heartfelt, slightly absurd speech—was born from his own experience of trying to make sense of failure.

2.4. It Generates a Tangible Product

Words turn into scripts, blogs, journals, songs—concrete artifacts that survive beyond fleeting emotions. Seeing your thoughts on paper (or a screen) affirms that “I exist.” For Apatow, the first script that got produced was a ticket out of the “never‑hired” purgatory.

3. From Personal Diary to Hollywood Blockbuster: The Evolution of Apatow’s Writing

Stage	What He Was Doing	What He Gained
Late Teens – Early 20s	Writing jokes for a high‑school newspaper, personal journals, early internet forums.	A safe outlet for insecurities; the habit of “show, don’t tell.”
Mid‑20s – Production Assistant	Drafting spec scripts in the margins of call sheets.	Discipline; learning industry format; rejection tolerance.
Late 20s – TV Writer	Staff writer for The Ben Stiller Show.	Professional validation; network of mentors.
30s – Creator of Freaks and Geeks	Semi‑autobiographical series about misfit teens.	Mastery of personal truth as universal comedy.
40s – Feature Films	Writing and directing movies that blend raunchy humor with raw emotion.	Cemented his voice as a cultural touchstone; proof that writing does pay the bills.

Each phase reflects a deepening relationship with writing: from venting to problem‑solving, from learning a craft to owning a brand.

4. How You Can Let Writing Save Your Life Too

If Judd Apatow’s journey feels like a Hollywood screenplay, you might be wondering: What’s the “real‑life” version for me? Below is a step‑by‑step guide that translates his experience into tangible actions.

4.1. Start Small—Pick a “Micro‑Journal”

Time: 5‑10 minutes a day.
Tool: A notebook, a notes app, or a voice recorder.
Prompt: “One thing that annoyed me today, and why.”
Goal: Turn raw irritation into a sentence.

4.2. Find Your “Genre”

You don’t have to write sitcom scripts. Identify the form that feels most natural:

Preference	Possible Outlet
Storytelling	Short stories, flash fiction
Visual thinkers	Comic strips, storyboards
Analytical minds	Essays, opinion pieces
Audio lovers	Podcast scripts, spoken‑word poetry

Tip: Apatow started with jokes because that’s what made him laugh. Use the same logic—write in the mode that makes you smile.

4.3. Give Yourself Permission to Fail

Apatow’s early scripts were rejected more often than they were accepted. That’s the norm. Treat each draft as a practice round:

Discard a page if it feels forced.
Celebrate the act of finishing a page, regardless of quality.
Iterate: Re‑write the same scene three times, each with a different emotional tone.

4.4. Create a “Feedback Loop”

Peer review: Share with a trusted friend or a writing group.
Professional edit: If you can afford it, get a freelance editor for at least one piece.
Self‑review: After a week, read your work with fresh eyes. Identify patterns—are you always avoiding a certain topic? That’s a clue.

4.5. Translate Into Public (or Semi‑Public) Work

When you feel comfortable, put something out there. It could be a blog post, a short video, a stand‑up set, or a tweet thread. Public exposure forces you to own your voice, just as Apatow did when his Freaks and Geeks pilot aired (even though it was cancelled after one season, it built a cult following).

5. The Dark Side: When Writing Becomes an Obsession

It’s worth noting that any coping skill can tip into compulsive behaviour. Here’s how to keep writing healthy:

Warning Sign	Healthy Adjustment
Writing to avoid real‑world responsibilities.	Set a timer: 30 minutes of writing, then 30 minutes of a non‑writing task.
Feeling crippled if you can’t write daily.	Allow “off‑days”; creative muscles need rest.
Using writing to manipulate others (e.g., oversharing to get sympathy).	Keep a privacy boundary: what stays private vs. what you’re comfortable publishing.
Writing that reinforces negativity (e.g., endless self‑criticism).	Introduce a positive lens: end each entry with one thing you’re grateful for.

Apatow himself has spoken about the need to step back after intense writing periods, especially during film productions where the pressure can be immense.

6. A Real‑World Example: From Journal to Launchpad

Consider Maya, a 28‑year‑old graphic designer who felt trapped in a corporate job. She started a private blog titled “Sketches of My Mind,” where she posted short, illustrated anecdotes about office life. After six months, a small indie publisher discovered her blog, approached her for a picture book, and the project is now slated for release next spring. Maya tells us:

“I never imagined my doodles could become a book. Writing—combined with my sketches—gave me the confidence to ask for what I wanted. It literally changed my career trajectory.”

Maya’s story mirrors Apatow’s in that writing transformed a private coping mechanism into a public, income‑generating product.

7. Takeaway: The Core Lesson Behind Apatow’s Quote

Writing isn’t just a skill; it’s a survival strategy.

When Apatow says, “Without writing, I would never have been able to make it in this world,” he’s describing a lifeline that carried him from a lonely bedroom filled with jokes to an industry where his humour reshapes culture. The lesson isn’t that you need an Oscar‑winning script; it’s that any form of writing that lets you externalise, organise, and share your inner world can become the bridge between where you are and where you need to be.

8. Quick Cheat Sheet – Your First 30‑Day Writing Plan

Day	Activity	Time	Goal
1‑5	Free‑write journal (any topic)	10 min	Break the “blank page” fear.
6‑10	Choose a “genre” & write one short piece	15 min	Identify your voice.
11‑15	Revise the piece twice	20 min	Practice editing.
16‑20	Share with a friend or online community	5 min	Get feedback.
21‑25	Write a public piece (blog post, tweet thread)	30 min	Test the waters of exposure.
26‑30	Reflect: What did you learn? What felt therapeutic?	10 min	Consolidate the habit.

Repeat, tweak, and watch the habit become an anchor—just as it did for Judd Apatow.

9. Final Thought: Your Story Is Waiting

If you ever find yourself wondering whether your words matter, remember that the world’s most celebrated comedians, screenwriters, and authors started by scribbling something—anything—to make sense of themselves. Judd Apatow turned a notebook full of jokes into a cultural empire. You might not be writing the next blockbuster, but you are writing the script of your own survival.

Grab a pen, open a document, or tap a voice memo. Let the words flow. In the quiet hum of a keyboard, you might just hear the faint echo of Apatow’s truth:

“Writing saved my life.”

May it save yours, too.

Ready to start? Drop a comment below sharing the first line you’ll write today. Let’s hold each other accountable and turn solitary scribbles into a community of storytellers.

An excerpt from “Echoes from the Past”

Available on Amazon Kindle here: https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

…

With my attention elsewhere, I walked into a man who was hurrying in the opposite direction. He was a big man with a scar running down the left side of his face from eye socket to mouth, and who was also wearing a black shirt with a red tie.

That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.

He apologized as he stepped to one side, the same way I stepped, as I also muttered an apology.

I kept my eyes down. He was not the sort of man I wanted to recognize later in a lineup. I stepped to the other side and so did he. It was one of those situations. Finally getting out of sync, he kept going in his direction, and I towards the bus, which was now pulling away from the curb.

Getting my breath back, I just stood riveted to the spot watching it join the traffic. I looked back over my shoulder, but the man I’d run into had gone. I shrugged and looked at my watch. It would be a few minutes before the next bus arrived.

Wait, or walk? I could also go by subway, but it was a long walk to the station. What the hell, I needed the exercise.

At the first intersection, the ‘Walk’ sign had just flashed to ‘Don’t Walk’. I thought I’d save a few minutes by not waiting for the next green light. As I stepped onto the road, I heard the screeching of tires.

A yellow car stopped inches from me.

It was a high powered sports car, perhaps a Lamborghini. I knew what they looked like because Marcus Bartleby owned one, as did every other junior executive in the city with a rich father.

Everyone stopped to look at me, then the car. It was that sort of car. I could see the driver through the windscreen shaking his fist, and I could see he was yelling too, but I couldn’t hear him. I stepped back onto the sidewalk, and he drove on. The moment had passed and everyone went back to their business.

My heart rate hadn’t come down from the last encounter. Now it was approaching cardiac arrest, so I took a few minutes and several sets of lights to regain composure.

At the next intersection, I waited for the green light, and then a few seconds more, just to be sure. I was no longer in a hurry.

At the next, I heard what sounded like a gunshot. A few people looked around, worried expressions on their faces, but when it happened again, I saw it was an old car backfiring. I also saw another yellow car, much the same as the one before, stopped on the side of the road. I thought nothing of it, other than it was the second yellow car I’d seen.

At the next intersection, I realized I was subconsciously heading towards Harry’s new bar. It was somewhere on 6^th Avenue, so I continued walking in what I thought was the right direction.

I don’t know why I looked behind me at the next intersection, but I did. There was another yellow car on the side of the road, not far from me. It, too, looked the same as the original Lamborghini, and I was starting to think it was not a coincidence.

Moments after crossing the road, I heard the roar of a sports car engine and saw the yellow car accelerate past me. As it passed by, I saw there were two people in it, and the blurry image of the passenger; a large man with a red tie.

Now my imagination was playing tricks.

It could not be the same man. He was going in a different direction.

In the few minutes I’d been standing on the pavement, it had started to snow; early for this time of year, and marking the start of what could be a long cold winter. I shuddered, and it was not necessarily because of the temperature.

I looked up and saw a neon light advertising a bar, coincidentally the one Harry had ‘found’ and, looking once in the direction of the departing yellow car, I decided to go in. I would have a few drinks and then leave by the back door if it had one.

Just in case.

newechocover5rs

NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 16

Onwards and upwards…

…

Or so the saying goes. I’m on target, but it’s like cruising down a placid river taking in the sights.

Until you hit the rapids.

That’s what it feels like, that there’s an impending disaster. I know how fatalistic it sounds, but many times in the past, when everything is going right, it’s too good to be true.

But…

I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

In the meantime, after editing today’s quota, I go back over the first ten chapters of part three and make some adjustments.

Now I feel better and can continue writing in accordance with the plan.

For now, it’s so far so good.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 89

Day 89 – Writing as a lifeline

…

Writing Saved My Life: What Judd Apatow’s Confession Teaches Us About the Power of the Pen

“Writing saved my life. Without writing, I would never have been able to make it in this world.”
— Judd Apatow

1. The Man Behind the Quote: A Brief (But Insightful) Biography