Month: January 2026

365 Days of writing, 2026 – My second novel 2

More about writing that second novel

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The Weight of Expectation: Essentials to Initiate the Second Novel After the Euphoria of the First

Abstract
The transition from debut to second novel represents a critical juncture in a writer’s career. While the first novel is often born of unbridled passion and unexamined confidence, the second novel is typically forged under the weight of expectation, industry scrutiny, and personal doubt. This paper explores the psychological, practical, and professional essentials required to successfully initiate and sustain the second novel writing process. Drawing upon literary theory, authorial testimonies, cognitive psychology, and publishing industry research, I identify four core pillars—re-establishing creative autonomy, managing external expectations, leveraging narrative momentum, and redefining success—that are crucial for initiating the second project. This analysis offers a framework for writers navigating what is often a disorienting and emotionally taxing phase of their artistic development.

Keywords: second novel syndrome, authorial identity, creative process, writer’s block, literary career development, narrative continuity, authorial expectations

1. Introduction

The publication of a first novel is frequently described as a transformative milestone in a writer’s life—a culmination of years of labour, isolation, and aspiration. The emotional landscape accompanying this achievement is one of euphoria, validation, and often, a sense of arrival into the literary world. However, this high tide is frequently followed by a receding wave: the daunting prospect of beginning again. While the debut novel may emerge from a raw, unfiltered impulse sustained by dreams and obsessions, the second novel is frequently obstructed by the sediment of success: expectation, self-scrutiny, and the pressure to prove that the first work was not a fluke.

This paper investigates the essential conditions required to initiate the second novel once the initial euphoria of the debut has subsided. Grounded in both empirical research and anecdotal evidence from published authors, it proposes a structured approach for writers to re-engage with their creative practice. The transition from first to second novel is not merely a technical challenge but an existential and psychological passage. Thus, the essentials to begin again are multifaceted, requiring the writer to reconstruct identity, reframe success, and rekindle narrative desire.

2. The Psychological Burden of the Second Novel

The phenomenon colloquially termed “second novel syndrome” refers to the creative paralysis that afflicts many authors after the debut’s release. Research in cognitive psychology suggests that success, while gratifying, can disrupt intrinsic motivation—the internal drive that fuels sustained creative work (Amabile, 1996). According to Deci and Ryan’s Self-Determination Theory, intrinsic motivation is fueled by autonomy, competence, and relatedness. The debut novel often satisfies these needs through unstructured exploration. However, post-publication, these same needs may be compromised.

2.1 The Erosion of Creative Autonomy

Following publication, authors frequently report a diminished sense of creative autonomy. External agents—publishers, agents, critics, and readers—enter the writer’s internal sphere, shaping expectations about genre, style, and thematic continuity. A study conducted by the Authors Guild (2020) found that 68% of debut novelists felt increased pressure to replicate the success of their first book, with many confessing to self-censorship out of fear of disappointing stakeholders.

The shift from writing for oneself to writing for an audience introduces what Csikszentmihalyi (1996) identifies as “inner conflict” in the creative process. When the writer becomes simultaneously the producer and the critic of their work—monitoring every choice for market receptivity—the flow state essential to sustained storytelling may dissipate.

2.2 The Crisis of Authorial Identity

With the debut, the individual is anointed “a novelist.” This new identity, though celebrated, can be burdensome. As Bakhtin (1981) noted, authorship is not a monolithic self but a dialogic process shaped by internal and external voices. The debut may have been written under the guise of anonymity or obscurity, but the second is written within the shadow of recognition. The author must now negotiate who they are as a writer: Are they the voice of the first novel? The voice the industry expects? Or someone still evolving?

This crisis of identity often leads to creative hesitation. As Zadie Smith observes in her essay “Fail Better” (2012), “You’ve never had a harder job than when it’s time to write the second book. You have a whole world of expectations now, including your own.” The writer’s internal critic, once manageable, now speaks with multiple voices—those of agents, reviewers, fans—amplifying self-doubt.

3. The Four Essentials to Initiate the Second Novel

While the challenges are significant, they are not insurmountable. Based on interviews with published authors and analysis of successful second novels, this paper identifies four essential components that facilitate the initiation and progress of the second project.

3.1 Re-establishing Creative Autonomy

The first essential is the reclamation of creative agency. This requires deliberate separation from external pressures and a return to the writer’s intrinsic motivation. Several authors achieve this by adopting a “draft zero” mentality—a private, exploratory draft exempt from review or evaluation.

Haruki Murakami, known for his disciplined writing routine, describes writing his second novel in a similar way to the first: alone, in silence, with no public announcements or deadlines imposed. This isolation allows the writer to experiment freely, without concern for reception. Establishing a private writing space—physical or mental—recreates the conditions that allowed the debut to flourish.

Additionally, writers may benefit from shifting their relationship with time. Rather than setting outcome-driven goals (“finish the novel by X date”), process-oriented goals (“write 500 words daily, without judgment”) support autonomy and mitigate pressure. In this way, the act of writing itself becomes the reward, not the publication.

3.2 Managing External Expectations

Expectations—both explicit and implied—are inevitable. The second essential, therefore, is not the elimination of expectations but their strategic management.

Writers must cultivate what Brené Brown (2010) calls “boundaries of belonging” in creative work. This includes clear communication with agents and publishers about creative intent, as well as emotional detachment from early reviews or sales figures. Several authors, such as Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, have spoken candidly about refusing to read reviews during the writing of their second books to preserve mental space.

Moreover, authors should acknowledge that audience expectations are mutable. Literary markets evolve, and readers often welcome growth and experimentation. The second novel need not be a retread of the first. Toni Morrison’s second novel, Sula, diverged significantly from the domestic realism of The Bluest Eye, embracing a more mythic, nonlinear structure. Its success demonstrates that risk, when grounded in artistic integrity, can be rewarded.

3.3 Leveraging Narrative Momentum

The third essential is the strategic use of narrative momentum—using insights from the first novel to inform, but not dictate, the second.

Many writers experience a disconnect between their debut and subsequent work, fearing that the magic of the first was unrepeatable. However, the process of completing a novel provides invaluable narrative intelligence: knowledge of structure, voice, pacing, and revision. This “tacit knowledge” (Polanyi, 1966) forms a foundation upon which the second work can be built.

Authors may harness this momentum by identifying the core thematic or emotional engine of their first novel and exploring its inverse or expansion. For instance, if the debut centred on loss, the second might explore forgiveness. If it was rooted in realism, the second could embrace fabulism. This continuity of inquiry—what novelist Rachel Cusk calls “the pursuit of a single question across books”—provides coherence without constriction.

Additionally, repurposing unused material from the debut’s drafts or notebooks can ignite the second project. Many authors discover that secondary characters or peripheral settings from the first novel contain underdeveloped potential. These fragments can serve as seeds for new narratives, easing the anxiety of beginning from nothing.

3.4 Redefining Success

The fourth essential is a recalibration of the writer’s definition of success. The debut is often judged by external metrics: acquisition, reviews, awards, sales. However, these benchmarks are insufficient for sustaining the writing process, particularly when embarking on the second novel.

Redefining success in terms of process—the consistency of practice, the honesty of expression, the courage to experiment—builds resilience. As poet Mary Oliver writes, “Instructions for living a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.” This ethos redirects focus from outcome to observation and expression.

Furthermore, embracing the possibility of failure is critical. Samuel Beckett’s famous dictum—“Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”—encapsulates the mindset required. The second novel may not achieve the same reception as the first, but it may possess greater artistic maturity. Writers who view their careers as an evolving body of work, rather than a series of isolated products, are more likely to persevere.

4. Case Studies: Lessons from Established Authors

4.1 Zadie Smith
Smith’s debut, White Teeth (2000), was a cultural phenomenon. Her second novel, The Autograph Man (2002), received more polarised reviews. In interviews, Smith admitted to feeling “crippled by expectation” and attempting to write something deliberately different, which led to mixed results. However, her subsequent novels (On Beauty, NW) reflect a more confident, personal voice. Smith’s trajectory illustrates that the second novel—however imperfect—is a necessary step in the maturation of voice.

4.2 Celeste Ng
Ng’s debut, Everything I Never Told You, was critically acclaimed. For her second novel, Little Fires Everywhere, she consciously returned to themes of family and identity but expanded her narrative scope. Ng credits a structured writing schedule and sustained research as key to initiating the second book. She also limited her engagement with social media and reviews during the writing process, preserving mental space.

4.3 Ocean Vuong
After the success of On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, Vuong described entering a period of creative silence. He did not begin his second novel immediately, instead allowing himself time to “unlearn” the habits of the first. His approach emphasises patience and the acceptance of nonlinear productivity—redefining starting not as a singular event but as a gradual re-immersion.

5. Practical Recommendations for Writers

To initiate the second novel, writers should consider the following steps:

  • Create a “pre-draft” ritual: Freewrite, journal, or sketch characters without aiming for a formal narrative.
  • Establish a writing sanctuary: Designate a time and space free from digital distractions and external input.
  • Set process goals: Focus on consistent output (e.g., 30 minutes/day) rather than word count or chapter completion.
  • Engage in parallel reading: Study novels that challenge or inspire—especially those unlike the debut.
  • Seek peer support: Join a writing group composed of other mid-career authors who understand the transition.
  • Delay external sharing: Resist the urge to share early drafts with agents or editors until a full draft is complete.
  • Embrace imperfection: Grant permission for the second novel to be messy, exploratory, or even “bad” in early stages.

6. Conclusion

The initiation of the second novel is less about technical preparation and more about psychological reorientation. The euphoria of the first publication must give way to a more mature, deliberate creative practice—one grounded in resilience, self-awareness, and artistic integrity. While external pressures and internal doubts are inevitable, the essentials for beginning again lie in reclaiming autonomy, managing expectations, channelling narrative momentum, and redefining success on one’s own terms.

The second novel is not a repetition but a recommitment—to the craft, to the voice, and to the self as a writer. It is in this commitment that the writer transcends the anxiety of the aftermath and re-enters the fertile silence from which stories are born. As Virginia Woolf reminds us in A Room of One’s Own, “Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others.” The writer of the second novel must, above all, learn to mind their own inner compass. In doing so, they do not merely survive the aftermath of success—they evolve beyond it.

References

  • Amabile, T. M. (1996). Creativity in Context. Westview Press.
  • Authors Guild. (2020). Survey of Published Authors. New York: Authors Guild.
  • Bakhtin, M. M. (1981). The Dialogic Imagination. University of Texas Press.
  • Brown, B. (2010). The Gifts of Imperfection. Hazelden.
  • Csikszentmihalyi, M. (1996). Creativity: Flow and the Psychology of Discovery and Invention. HarperCollins.
  • Deci, E. L., & Ryan, R. M. (1985). Intrinsic Motivation and Self-Determination in Human Behavior. Springer.
  • Oliver, M. (2004). Long Life: Essays and Other Writings. Da Capo Press.
  • Polanyi, M. (1966). The Tacit Dimension. University of Chicago Press.
  • Smith, Z. (2012). “Fail Better.” The New York Review of Books, 59(15).
  • Woolf, V. (1929). A Room of One’s Own. Hogarth Press.

(Note: Additional primary and secondary sources include interviews from The Paris Review, The Guardian, and literary podcasts such as “Otherppl with Brad Listi.”)

An excerpt from “If Only” – a work in progress

Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.

That was particularly true in my case.  The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.

At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me.  I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.

The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters.  She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.

Routine was the word she used.

Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible.  I could sense the raging violence within him.  Fortunately, common sense prevailed.

Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.

After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.

But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.

The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.

For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.

They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts.  Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.

No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.

She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy.  Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution.  Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.

It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down.  I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess.  Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.

What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again.  It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.

And it had.

Since then, we saw each about once a month in a cafe.   I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.

We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee.  It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.

She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.

I wondered if this text message was in that category.  I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.

I reached for the phone then put it back down again.  I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.

© Charles Heath 2018-2020

In a word: Prize

What you win, first prize in a raffle, though I don’t think I’ve ever won first prize.  Second maybe.  But, aren’t all raffles rigged?  

But despite my unfortunate run of luck, a prize is generally give to someone who works hard, or wins a race

Or I could have been a prize fighter but lacked the size and the strength, and out of curiosity how many prize fighters didn’t win a prize?

And if I had been a pirate, I could have sailed the seven seas to find a prize, namely a ship to attack and take as my own.

And as a prime example, a Chelsea supporter walking into a bar full of Manchester United fans could be called a prize idiot.

This is not to be confused with the word prise

Don’t relatives prise the last dollar out of a dying man’s hand?

Or prise the truth out of a witness, or a perpetrator

Or prise a window open like thieves do when we forget to lock them properly?

An excerpt from “One Last Look”: Charlotte is no ordinary girl

This is currently available at Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

…

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.

“Welcome back.”

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

onelastlookcoverfinal2

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 32

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

It was about a mile by foot to the old church.  Carlo was waiting for us, and then led the way because I wasn’t sure where it was, even though I’d been there once, and hadn’t really been taking any notice.

It was enough time to ask Blinky a few questions about how things were going because he would have a better overall view of the war being involved in the operational side of things.  Thompson’s group of which I was a part, only had our part in a much larger war effort involving a number of covert operations.

It wasn’t going well, not that he put it in so many words, and it looked like it was going to drag on a while longer.  Beyond that, he was not saying anything more.  Perhaps he didn’t know, or perhaps he thought the trees had ears.

I know, loose lips sink ships.

Carlo was indifferent, though I could see he was not happy about Leonardo not turning up so we could kill him and his men.  For me, I had an awfully bad feeling we had missed something, and the end result of it was not going to be good.

And that feeling of foreboding only increased the closer we got to the church ruins.

Blinky was shocked to learn that the Germans would destroy a church and kill the priest.  I guess a lot of people would be if they knew.

When we were about 50 yards from the entrance, I saw one of Blinky’s men show his face, behind a gun raised just in case we were not friends.  When he saw Blinky with us, he lowered the gun and stepped out of the shadows so we could see him.

Closer again, I could see the soldier was looking quite distraught.

“What’s the matter?” Blinky asked him.  

“When we got here, we went inside the church.  God, it was awful.  There’s a woman in there, and…” 

A woman?

I almost ran, and at the end, lying on the ground was a woman, with the Sergeant trying to do what he could.

Carlo bustled past and was first to her side.

“Chiara,” he said hoarsely.

Chiara?  What was she doing here?  How did she get here?  What had happened?

I joined Carlo on the other side.  She was awake but in a terrible state.  Whoever inflicted punishment on her had been very brutal.  The sergeant had managed to cover her broken body with the remnants of her clothes and had tried to clean away some of the blood.

She had been beaten severely and she had the sort of wounds I’d seen before, a result of both fists and weapons.  Torture used to extract information, and, with a sinking feeling, I knew exactly what information Leonardo would be after.

And equally, I knew there would be no point getting to the underground hideout.  All I could hope for was that some, if not all who had been taken there for their safety, had escaped.  But, without forewarning…

She looked from Carlo to me.

“What happened,” I asked.

“Leonardo.  I went out to collect one of the family members and ran into Leonardo and his men.  

They brought me here, and…”  It was spoken haltingly, as each breath, each word, brought on new and sharp pain.  She was having trouble breathing, and the blood coming out her mouth told me it was possible she had broken ribs and a punctured lung.

I hoped not, but it was a forlorn hope.  There was little we would be able to do for her, and moving her, and finding proper medical help was going to be almost impossible.

At the end of that first speech, I saw her shudder, and then moan as waves of pain passed through her.

The Sargent had a field medical kit and had taken out a syringe which I assumed had morphine.  She was going to need it.

“This should take away the pain,” he said to no one in particular, then administered it.

For a moment I thought it had rendered her unconscious, but a minute or so later she opened her eyes again.  Glassy, but there was a shred of relief in them.

“You’re going to have to move her to somewhere better than this.  There’s a lot of damage, and it’s going to be difficult.”  The Sargent knew he was fighting a losing battle.

I got the impression it wasn’t the worst he’d seen.

I felt her hand touch mine, and she said, softly, “Tell Martina I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I’m not the brave person she thinks I am.  I couldn’t withstand the torture.  I tried, I tried very hard, but I couldn’t stop myself…”  Again, it was in dispersed with wheezing, breathlessness, and bouts of pain when she tried to breathe in.  I almost couldn’t quite understand her, because her English was not as good as Martina’s.

It confirmed my worst fear, that Leonardo knew where Martina and the others were hiding.

I jumped up.  “Blinky, stay here, do what you can for her.  Carlo…”

He was up and heading for the exit.  He heard, and he knew what it meant.

Blinky took my place, and said, “Go.  We’ll be here when you get back.”

For a big man, Carlo was fast, and it took until we’d almost reached the underground entrance before I caught up with him.

© Charles Heath 2020

A long short story that can’t be tamed – I always wanted to rescue a damsel in distress – 5

Five

Five minutes, and a backlog of customers, a new clerk, her name tag ‘Betty’, arrived and began processing the others.  I could see behind me, the Concierge pick up the phone and while listening, he was looking directly at me.

When he hung up, he disappeared into a back room, and when he returned there was another man with him, one that looked like a plain clothes detective, and as they were talking, they were looking at us.

Two suspicious people turn up with no luggage.  It was still at the airport, I’d intended to have it delivered to Cecile’s flat, but it was clear we would not be able to stay there.  Should I go over and ask him to arrange for its delivery?

I was about to go over to him when Wendy reappeared with an envelope in her hand.

She passed it across the counter.  “This was left for you two days ago.  We also have a reservation in your name.  I assume you are here to check-in?”

I looked at Emily and she nodded.

I turned back to Wendy.  “Yes.” 

Knowing how check-in worked and having to prepay for the room, I was pulling out my credit card to pay, hoping it wasn’t going to cost a small fortune.

Wendy saw me, and said, “The room has been paid for a week, sir.  It’s next to your friend’s room.”  I saw her process two keys, and then handed them to me.  “I trust you will enjoy your stay.”

I put the envelope in my pocket, and we crossed to the elevator lobby.

While we were waiting for the elevator, Emily said, “She was anticipating your arrival.”

“More likely hoping I would come.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your sister and I had a falling out before she left to come here.  We were supposed to get through the internship at the company before making a decision of what would happen next.  I had thought we might get married, but she didn’t quite want what I thought we both wanted.  It’s basically the reason why she came here.  It’s also the reason she found someone else, I suspect.  I refused to come over and join her.”

“When was this?”

“Three months ago.  I’m sorry but I didn’t tell anyone.  I was still coming to grips with having my hopes dashed.”

The lift doors opened in front of us, and three people stepped out, one of who gave me what I thought was a curious look.  The elevator empty we stepped in and I pressed the floor button.  The doors almost closed when an umbrella end was thrust in, causing the doors to reopen.  A man in a pinstripe suit and bowler hat stepped in.

“Sorry, thought it was empty.”

The doors closed.  He didn’t press any button so I assumed he was going up to the same floor as us.  He had what looked to be a key in his hand, so was another guest.

It didn’t stop my imagination working overtime.  I gave Emily the ‘don’t talk’ look hoping she understood what I meant.

The elevator jerked to a stop and the doors rattled open.  The man with the umbrella dashed out and turned left, striding purposefully up the passage.  We stepped out and checked to see which way the room was.  The opposite direction, thankfully.

Emily didn’t say another word, but for the length of the passage, until we reached the room, she looked over her shoulder several times, perhaps looking for the man in the pin-striped suit.

I used the key to open the door, ushered Emily in, and then looked up and down the passage to see if anyone was about, then stepped in and let the door close.

“What was that about?” she asked.

“Did it strike you as odd that he waits until the last second to get in the elevator?”

“Probably a man in a hurry.  Are you going to be suspicious of everyone?”

“Until I know what’s going on, yes.”

There was nothing in the room.  Smallish, twin beds, an expensive mini bar, and towels and toiletries for two.  And it was quite warm.  Like most old places, the warmth came from a hot water radiator underneath a fading painting of rural England.

Everything looked as though it was as old as the hotel itself.  I thought I could detect the aroma of metal and wood polish.

I pulled the envelope out of my pocket and sat on the end of the bed.  On the front, it said ‘to be hand-delivered to [name]’ in Cecile’s writing.  Clue number two in what was beginning to look like a treasure hunt.

“James,

Well, if you’re reading this, it means matters have gone from bad to worse, not that I thought they could.  Enclosed is a card with Jake’s last known address on it.  I had a choice of two and went to the other.  I suggest you start there and find Jake.  He will know where I am.

Cee”

Emily looked at me.  She had read the note over my shoulder.  “Seems we have a mission, shall we go?”

It was that precise moment there was a knock on the door.  Not a friendly knock from room service or housekeeping, a knock that had trouble behind it.

I looked around the room, not sure why I was doing it, because there was no escape hatch, nor would we be going out the window.

As my eyes returned to the door, Emily was already there, hand on the handle.  It was too late to say no.

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 15

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.

Was I working for a ghost?

 

The question that was foremost in my mind was whether I should call Nobbin, and let him know that I’d met Severin and that his ‘information’ was on a USB.

When I’d mentioned the fact O’Connor said the evidence was somewhere, I knew this evidence was on a USB and could be in one of the hiding places O’Connor had set up with Nobbin.  If not, then it had to be somewhere else, somewhere only O’Connor would know about.

Somehow, I got the impression O’Connor had not trusted either side.  Yes, he was about to tell me where the evidence was, but if that was the case, it meant it was not anywhere where anyone else would know about.

Severin should have curbed his desire for execution a little, and taken O’Connor into custody, and then interrogated him.  It made me wonder, briefly, why Severin would want him dead.  In cases like that, it was because Severin didn’t want O’Connor to talk to me, or anyone else.

Still, he could have tranquilized O’Connor.  I would not have known the difference.

That meant I had to find out more information on O’Connor.

Of course, in just saying that out loud, over a half-full glass of scotch, just to steady the nerves after seeing Severin again, made it sound almost like a running joke.

As if I would be able to find someone who was, for all intents and purposes, a ghost.  That was how we were supposed to be, ghosts, to everyone we knew, including family.  We could no longer talk to anyone because they might become a target used as leverage against us.

That part of my training had been the scariest.  I didn’t have any friends, not real friends anyway, and no family, other than a half-brother who hated me.  I had toyed with the idea of meeting him, after I’d completed the training, just to see if anyone would try to use him as leverage, and then tell them he meant nothing to me.

It was an idea, I doubt if I could do it in reality.  But the thought of it gave me some measure of revenge for all the bullying he had inflicted on me when I was young.  Perhaps that was why I took this job, to prove I was nothing like the person he considered me to be.

Enough of the delving into the shadowy past.

I had a problem that needed solving.  How to find O’Connor.

After a long night of fitful sleep, I woke the next morning with the shreds of a plan.  I’d go into the office and use their computer system to look for him.  Of course, I didn’t expect that there would be any information available to an agent with my security clearance, which was basically to get in and out of the front door and log on to the computer to fill out reports and a timesheet.

It was a surprise, after what Nobbin had said about my employment, that my pass got me in the door.  It did, but I had no doubt somewhere it had register my name in a log somewhere.  I figured I had about half an hour before someone came checking up on me.

The same went for the computer system.  There was a bank of about a dozen computers in a room where the agents could do information searches, and private work, such as reports.  Three others were occupied, and none of those using them looked up when I entered the room.

Not a surprise.  We were taught to keep to ourselves and say nothing about the missions we were attached to anyone else.  In our line of work, secrets were paramount.  We were to become consummate liars because we could never tell anyone the truth about what we did.  If we wanted a cover story, we were to say we were international confidential couriers of documents for legal institutions.

It sounded interesting, but it was quite boring, or at least that was how I described it if anyone asked.

So, ignoring the others, I logged in and found I was still on the employee list.  And, I still had the same level of access I had before.

I ran a search on the name O’Connor.

It came back with five documents, the first of which was his personnel record.  First name, Donald.  A date of birth that made him 27 years old, and an address, in Putney.  I wrote it down.  Marital status, single.  Status, deceased.  Section worked for:  Eight.

There were supposedly eight sections, and the one I worked for was Seven.  Out of interest, I brought up my records.  It was how Severin had found me because my address was on file.  But more interesting was my status, transferred, and my section, three.  Was Nobbin’s section three?

I would ask if I got an opportunity to.

The other four documents were reports, most of which were redacted, or marked restricted.  Or above my pay grade, whatever that was.

But, at least one thing was clear, I had not been fired, just transferred.  I guess I would have to call Nobbin after all.  After I visited O’Connor’s last known residence.

I wasn’t holding my breath expecting to find anything.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 9

Day 9 – Keeping a journal

…

The Power of the Pen: Pros and Cons of Keeping a Writing Journal

As a writer, whether you’re crafting a novel, blogging, or penning poetry, progress doesn’t always follow a straight line. Inspiration strikes at midnight. Doubt creeps in between drafts. Momentum builds—then stalls. In the midst of this creative ebb and flow, one simple tool has stood the test of time: the writing journal.

More than just a logbook, a writing journal is a companion on your creative journey—a private space for tracking progress, reflecting on setbacks, and celebrating breakthroughs. But is it right for every writer? Let’s explore the pros and cons of keeping a journal dedicated to your writing practice.

The Pros of Keeping a Writing Journal

1. Tracks Progress and Builds Accountability

One of the most powerful benefits of a writing journal is its ability to record your journey. By noting daily word counts, completed chapters, or time spent writing, you create a tangible record of your progress.

This log can be incredibly motivating. Seeing that you’ve written 10,000 words in a month—especially on days when you feel stuck—reinforces that consistency matters, even when inspiration doesn’t.

Additionally, tracking goals helps hold you accountable. It’s one thing to say you’ll write every day; it’s another to see a calendar streak and not want to break it.

2. Encourages Reflection and Self-Awareness

A writing journal isn’t just for numbers—it’s a place for reflection. Questions like “What challenged me today?”, “What writing habit worked?”, or “What emotions surfaced during this scene?” invite introspection.

Over time, these reflections reveal patterns: certain times of day when you’re most productive, themes that recur in your work, or triggers that lead to writer’s block. This self-awareness can guide intentional changes to your process.

3. Provides a Creative Outlet Beyond Your Main Work

Sometimes, your main project doesn’t allow room for experimentation. A journal can serve as a playground—somewhere to jot down random ideas, metaphors, character sketches, or snippets of dialogue that don’t fit into your current manuscript.

This free-form creative space keeps your imagination limber and may even spark new projects.

4. Boosts Motivation During Droughts

There will be days—sometimes weeks—when writing feels like wading through mud. On those days, flipping through past journal entries can be a morale booster. Seeing what you’ve overcome before reminds you that this too shall pass.

Celebrating small wins in your journal—like finishing a tough scene or finally nailing a character arc—adds emotional momentum that keeps you going.

5. Improves Overall Writing Skills

Reflective writing strengthens your critical thinking and self-editing abilities. Analysing what worked (or didn’t) in a draft helps you develop a sharper editorial eye.

Plus, regularly writing about writing—describing your process, challenges, and breakthroughs—builds clarity in how you communicate ideas, which naturally spills over into your creative work.

The Cons of Keeping a Writing Journal

1. Time and Energy Drain

For some writers, the idea of maintaining a journal feels like an extra chore. After spending hours on a draft, the thought of then logging thoughts, progress, and reflections can feel exhausting.

If your writing already demands significant mental bandwidth, adding a journal may lead to burnout rather than inspiration.

2. Risk of Over-Tracking and Perfectionism

While tracking progress can be empowering, it can also backfire. Fixating on word count goals or consistency metrics may breed guilt when you fall short.

Some writers begin to equate productivity with worth, leading to stress or writer’s block. A journal meant to support your creativity can turn into a source of pressure.

3. Potential for Negative Spiral

Honest reflection is valuable, but it can veer into self-criticism. Without balance, a journal might become a catalogue of failures: “Wrote nothing today,” “This scene is terrible,” “I’ll never finish.”

If not managed with compassion, this negativity can erode confidence and motivation.

4. Not a One-Size-Fits-All Solution

Every writer’s process is unique. While some thrive with structure and daily logs, others thrive in spontaneity. For free-flow writers who resist routine, a journal may feel too rigid or artificial.

Forcing yourself into a system that doesn’t align with your natural rhythm can hinder more than help.

5. Digital or Physical? The Management Question

Deciding how to keep your journal—notebook, bullet journal, digital document, app—adds another layer of complexity. Some find handwriting deeply reflective; others prefer searchable digital notes.

But juggling too many tools or platforms can lead to inconsistency. If your journal lives in three different places, it may get neglected altogether.

How to Make a Writing Journal Work for You

The key to a successful writing journal isn’t perfection—it’s sustainability. Here are a few tips:

  • Keep it simple. A few bullet points per day or weekly reflections are often enough.
  • Balance metrics with meaning. Record word counts, but also note emotional highs and creative insights.
  • Be kind to yourself. Use your journal to foster growth, not guilt.
  • Review regularly. Monthly or quarterly look-backs help you see progress and adjust goals.
  • Adapt as needed. Change your journal format when your needs evolve.

Final Thoughts

A writing journal is not a magic fix, but it can be a powerful ally. It offers clarity, accountability, and a mirror to your creative soul. Yet like any tool, its effectiveness depends on how you use it.

If it nurtures your passion and fuels your progress—wonderful. If it becomes a burden, it’s okay to set it aside, modify it, or try a different approach.

At its best, a writing journal isn’t about measuring output; it’s about honouring your journey. And in the unpredictable, often solitary world of writing, that kind of companionship is worth its weight in ink.

What about you? Do you keep a writing journal? Share your experiences, tips, or lessons learned in the comments below. Let’s learn from each other’s creative paths.

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Harare

Hidden Gems of Harare: 5 Unique and Uncrowded Tourist Attractions You Shouldn’t Miss

When most travellers think of Zimbabwe, destinations like Victoria Falls, Hwange National Park, or Great Zimbabwe often dominate the conversation. But the vibrant capital city of Harare, often overlooked, holds its own with a blend of culture, natural beauty, and quiet charm. While many tourists rush through Harare on their way to other destinations, those who pause to explore will discover a city brimming with understated elegance and off-the-beaten-path experiences.

If you’re looking to escape the crowds and soak in Harare’s authentic spirit, here are five distinctive yet seldom-crowded tourist attractions that offer something truly special:

1. Harare Gardens (Botanical Garden)

Tucked away in the heart of the city, Harare Gardens—also known as the National Botanic Garden—is a serene 47-hectare oasis bursting with indigenous flora, tranquil ponds, and shaded pathways. Despite its central location, it remains one of the city’s best-kept secrets, often visited more by locals taking their morning strolls than by international tourists.

Why It Stands Out:
Home to over 900 plant species, including ancient baobabs and flame trees that bloom spectacularly in November, the gardens are a haven for birdwatchers and photographers. The rose garden and the peaceful duck pond add a romantic touch, perfect for quiet reflection or a peaceful picnic. On weekends, you might catch local musicians or art displays, adding a cultural flair.

Pro Tip: Visit early morning to enjoy the misty atmosphere and catch glimpses of sunbirds flitting between blossoms.

2. The Kopje: A Geological Wonder in the City

Perched atop a granite hill in the suburb of Mount Pleasant, The Kopje is a natural rock formation and one of Harare’s oldest geological landmarks. It’s a short, moderately steep hike (around 20 minutes) that rewards adventurers with panoramic views of the city and surrounding highlands.

Why It Stands Out:
Beyond the scenic vista, The Kopje is rich in history and geology. The massive granite boulders—some balancing precariously on others—were formed over 2.6 billion years ago. Look closely, and you’ll spot ancient rock carvings that hint at early human settlement. The site is sacred to some Zimbabweans and exudes a rare sense of stillness and spiritual energy.

Pro Tip: Bring sturdy shoes and a camera. Golden hour here offers some of the most breathtaking cityscape views with minimal foot traffic.

3. Chapungu Sculpture Park

A tribute to Zimbabwe’s renowned Shona sculpture tradition, Chapungu Sculpture Park in Borrowdale is a sprawling green space adorned with over 100 stone masterpieces. Despite its artistic significance, it remains refreshingly uncrowded, offering a tranquil space to appreciate the country’s rich sculptural heritage.

Why It Stands Out:
Each sculpture tells a story—some spiritual, some whimsical, all deeply connected to Zimbabwean culture and nature. The park is set within beautifully landscaped gardens, with gazebos, lily ponds, and winding paths. It’s an open-air museum where art and nature coexist in harmony.

Pro Tip: Look out for works by master sculptors like Bernard Takawira and Henry Munyaradzi. Guided tours can be arranged to deepen your appreciation of the symbolism behind the art.

4. National Gallery of Zimbabwe

Located in the city centre, the National Gallery is a cultural gem that showcases the best of Zimbabwean and African contemporary art. While it occasionally hosts bustling events, the galleries themselves are usually pleasantly quiet, giving visitors space to truly engage with the artwork.

Why It Stands Out:
The permanent collection includes traditional Shona sculpture, modern paintings, and thought-provoking installations by both emerging and acclaimed artists. The gallery also hosts temporary international exhibitions, film screenings, and artist talks, making it a dynamic cultural hub.

Don’t miss the outdoor sculpture garden and the charming café, which often features live acoustic music on weekends.

Pro Tip: Visit on the first Friday of the month for “First Friday,” a monthly art event with extended hours and special previews—still intimate but lively.

5. Samora Machel Avenue: Heritage & Urban Art Trail

Step off the main tourist routes and explore Samora Machel Avenue—a modest street in the city center that doubles as an open-air gallery of colonial-era architecture and vibrant street art. While not a traditional attraction, its blend of historical preservation and urban expression makes it a unique sight.

Why It Stands Out:
You’ll find beautifully restored Edwardian and Art Deco buildings standing side-by-side with striking murals that reflect Zimbabwe’s liberation history, cultural diversity, and social commentary. It’s a walk through time: from colonial Harare to modern, resilient Zimbabwe.

Pro Tip: Visit mid-morning when natural light hits the murals perfectly. Bring a notebook—this quiet street inspires reflection on art, history, and identity.

Final Thoughts

Harare is more than just a transit city—it’s a destination with a soul. These five hidden attractions offer peace, beauty, and cultural depth without the usual tourist throngs. Whether you’re admiring ancient stone carvings at The Kopje, soaking in the quiet elegance of the botanical gardens, or letting art spark deep conversations at Chapungu, you’ll come away with a richer understanding of Zimbabwe’s capital.

So the next time you’re in Harare, skip the crowded spots and discover the city’s quieter, more authentic side. After all, the best travel memories are often made in the places few others think to go.

What I learned about writing – The Do’s and Don’ts of Effective Writing

The Do’s and Don’ts of Effective Writing: A Professional’s Guide to Clarity and Impact

In the digital age, where information travels faster than ever, the ability to write clearly, persuasively, and professionally is more valuable than ever. Whether you’re crafting a business email, publishing a blog post, drafting a report, or posting on social media, your writing is often the first impression you make.

Great writing doesn’t happen by accident. It’s the result of deliberate choices, attention to detail, and adherence to time-tested principles. In this post, we’ll explore the most important do’s and don’ts of writing to help you communicate with clarity, confidence, and credibility.

✅ The Essential Do’s of Writing

1. Do Know Your Audience

Before you write a single word, ask: Who am I writing for? A technical report for engineers will differ drastically from a newsletter for general readers. Tailoring your tone, vocabulary, and depth of information to your audience ensures your message resonates and is understood.

Tip: Imagine your ideal reader. What do they care about? What questions might they have? Write to answer them.

2. Do Plan Before You Write

Great writing starts with structure. Take time to outline your main points. Whether it’s a blog post, essay, or presentation, having a roadmap keeps your writing focused and logical.

Example: Use a simple structure: Introduction → Key Points → Conclusion. This helps both you and your reader follow the argument.

3. Do Write Clearly and Concisely

Clarity is king. Avoid jargon, long-winded sentences, and vague language. Use simple words when possible and be specific.

Instead of: “The utilization of temporal resources was suboptimal.”
Write: “We didn’t manage our time well.”

Shorter sentences increase readability. Aim for an average of 15–20 words per sentence.

4. Do Edit Ruthlessly

First drafts are meant to be imperfect. The real work begins in the editing phase. Cut redundant words, fix unclear phrases, and tighten your message.

Tip: Read your work aloud. If you stumble, your readers will too.

5. Do Use Active Voice

Active voice makes your writing stronger and more engaging. It clarifies who is doing what.

Passive: “Mistakes were made.”
Active: “We made mistakes.”

Active voice holds you accountable and makes your writing more direct.

6. Do Use Examples and Stories

Facts inform, but stories engage. Use anecdotes, case studies, or real-life examples to illustrate your points and make them memorable.

Example: Instead of saying “customer service is important,” tell the story of a time when exceptional service won a loyal client.

❌ The Critical Don’ts of Writing

1. Don’t Overwrite

More words do not equal better writing. Avoid filler phrases like “in order to,” “due to the fact that,” or “at this point in time.” These dilute your message.

Instead of: “At this point in time, we are in the process of evaluating the situation.”
Write: “We’re evaluating the situation now.”

Simplicity is sophistication.

2. Don’t Ignore Grammar and Punctuation

Poor grammar undermines your credibility. While perfection isn’t always necessary (especially in informal writing), consistent errors make you appear careless.

Tip: Use tools like Grammarly or Hemingway Editor to catch common mistakes. But don’t rely on them entirely—learn the rules.

3. Don’t Assume Your Reader Knows What You Mean

Never assume context is shared. Define acronyms, explain technical terms, and clarify intentions. Over-communication is better than confusion.

Example: “We’re implementing CRM software” → “We’re implementing CRM (Customer Relationship Management) software to improve client follow-ups.”

4. Don’t Write Without a Clear Purpose

Every piece of writing should have a goal: to inform, persuade, instruct, or inspire. If you can’t state the purpose in one sentence, your writing will likely lack focus.

Ask yourself: What should the reader know, feel, or do after reading this?

5. Don’t Skip the Headline or Hook

Whether it’s an email subject line or a blog title, your opening is your first—and sometimes only—chance to grab attention. Make it compelling.

Weak: “Meeting Notes”
Strong: “3 Key Decisions from Today’s Strategy Meeting”

A strong hook pulls the reader in and sets expectations.

6. Don’t Procrastinate the Final Review

Never send or publish something without a final review. Check for tone, typos, formatting, and consistency. It only takes a minute—and it makes all the difference.

Pro Tip: Wait 10–15 minutes after writing before reviewing. A fresh eye spots more errors.

Final Thoughts: Writing Is a Skill, Not a Talent

Good writing isn’t about perfection—it’s about connection. When you follow the do’s and avoid the don’ts, you’re not just avoiding mistakes; you’re creating content that informs, influences, and inspires.

Remember: Every great writer was once a beginner. The key is consistency, curiosity, and the willingness to revise.

So, write often. Read widely. Edit fearlessly. And always keep your reader in mind.

Because in the end, the most powerful writing is the kind that makes someone stop, think, and act.

What’s your biggest writing challenge? Share in the comments—we’d love to help!
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