Author: aloysius5

Over the years, I have traveled extensively and kept journals, with the idea that one day all of those places would become locations in books. Notebooks filled with odd characters, people and incidents observed, and whole tracts of stories written when the on the spot inspiration has been a driving force. All of this is the basis of the first three novels, Sunday In New York, set, of course, in New York, probably my favorite city in the world, “Echoes From The Past’ equally set in New York, Brooklyn Heights and Philadelphia. The third, The Devil You Don’t, travels through Europe, starting in Geneva, moving to Rome, then Sorrento, and then to Venice. Now, my passion to write is fuelled by travel and fine dining. When I take a break from these, I get to torment my three wonderful grandchildren whom I actively encourage to read as much as they can, and more recently to also write. As for almost every other writer, I would not be able to do any of this without my wife who has put up with my moodiness, the times when I'm locked away in a room trying to push out another 2,000 words, and yet despite everything still puts up with me. I wish I could say the same for our cat. Alas, I am still trying to work out how to be his friend!

NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 12

It was a day like no other.

Oops, been watching Romancing the Stone again, and that catchy line caught my attention. Perhaps I can use it somewhere, one day.

But…

The project is proceeding on course, adhering more to the outline than less, and it’s looking good.

I know just in saying that the ship is about to founder on a reef, so I’ll brace myself.

Today’s quota of words is done early, so I can sit down soon and do the crossword over a cup of coffee while waiting for dinner to cook in the oven.

Perhaps we might have a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc with dinner. What I’ve noticed with these is that they are not all the same; some actually taste terrible, and some are quite exquisite. I suspect it might be where they grow the grapes, even if it is in the same region.

And, later, I’ll take another look at the sidebar I decided to add and flesh it out a little more. In view of what is happening, it is rather fortuitous that it came out of left field because it will serve as a reminder that being home doesn’t mean they’re safe.

Sayings: Before you can say, Jack Robinson

Once upon a time, you could have told me Jack Robinson was a jack in the box; the name meant nothing to me.

Not until Phryne Fisher came along, a rather brilliant 1920s private detective series set in the back streets of Melbourne, as well as more salubrious houses of the rich and famous.
In this series, there is a policeman, a foil for her detective moments, and a love interest that is always just beyond her grasp, a man by the name of Inspector Jack Robinson.

How coincidental.

But…

As for the saying, before you can say Jack Robinson…

It has nothing to do with Phryne Fisher’s Inspector.

Instead,

There is one story of a politician, Jack Robinson, in the late eighteenth century, who was accused of bribery on the floor of the House of Commons in England. His accuser was another MP who was asked to name the culprit, and thereby coined the term, ‘I could name him as soon as I could say, Jack Robinson’.

The second was a Jack Robinson, the hero of a story written in the nineteenth century, who came home to find his intended wife married to another, and to assuage the pain of it, he went back to the sea, ‘afore you could say Jack Robinson’.

I’m sure there’s a ton of other sayings that could be attached to the name, but these seem to be the accepted reasons for the term ‘before you can say, Jack Robinson’.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 85

Day 85 – Writing to please yourself

…

Writing for Yourself vs. Writing for an Audience

Why trying to please a “target reader” can lead you straight into a creative dead‑end—and how embracing your own voice can actually broaden your reach.

1. The Age‑Old Dilemma

Every writer, from the novice journal keeper to the seasoned novelist, has heard the mantra: “Know your audience.” In marketing circles, it’s a golden rule, in academic circles, it’s a prerequisite for a good paper, and in creative writing workshops, it’s often presented as a safety net: “If you write for someone who actually wants to read your work, you’ll have a better chance of success.”

But there’s a darker side to that advice. When the phrase “target audience” becomes a prescriptive checklist, it can morph into a self‑imposed prison. You start asking:

* Should I tone down my humour because “my readers don’t get sarcasm”?*
* Do I need to avoid political opinions because “my audience is 50‑something retirees”?*
* Must I keep my protagonist’s journey “relatable” in a way that feels forced?*

The result? A story that sounds less like you and more like a diluted version of what you think they want. In the worst cases, the writing turns bland, generic, and ultimately forgettable.

2. The Myth of the “Perfect Reader”

The idea that a single, monolithic reader exists—someone who will love everything you write—is a comforting illusion. In reality:

Reader TypeTypical ExpectationReality
The “Ideal Fan”Loves every plot twist, character, and stylistic quirk.No one loves everything; even the biggest fans have pet peeves.
The “Critical Scholar”Demands flawless structure and deep subtext.Even experts can disagree on what qualifies as “deep.”
The “Casual Browser”Wants light, easy‑to‑digest content.They might actually crave something thought‑provoking if presented well.
The “Niche Enthusiast”Wants high‑level technical detail.Over‑explaining can alienate newcomers; under‑explaining can feel lazy.

Because each individual brings a unique mix of experience, mood, and personal bias to the page, any attempt to write for a single archetype is fundamentally speculative. You can only guess what will click, and even the most data‑driven predictions can’t account for the serendipitous spark that makes a reader fall in love with a line.

3. Writing for You: The Unexpected Advantage

When you write primarily for yourself, a few things happen that actually help reach a broader audience:

What Happens When You Write for YourselfWhy It Helps the Reader
Authentic Voice EmergesReaders pick up on sincerity. A genuine tone feels trustworthy and invites empathy.
Risk‑Taking Becomes NaturalYou’re more willing to experiment with structure, language, or theme—creating fresh experiences for the reader.
Consistency Beats ConformityA clear personal style becomes a brand. Readers know what to expect (and love it), even if the genre shifts.
Passion Fuels PersistenceWriting is hard. When the work matters to you, you’re more likely to edit, rewrite, and polish.

Think of it as a two‑way street: the more you love what you write, the more chance there is that someone else will love it too. Authenticity is magnetic; calculated pandering is often invisible.

4. Real‑World Examples

AuthorWhat They DidResult
Haruki MurakamiWrote stories about jazz bars, cats, and surreal parallel worlds because those obsessions fascinated him.Global cult following; readers across continents adore his “oddly specific” voice.
David MitchellMixed historical fiction with speculative sci‑fi purely because he loved the “what‑if” of time travel.Critical acclaim and a wildly diverse readership attracted to his genre‑bending narratives.
Samantha “Sam” Cole (fictional indie blogger)Abandoned a “listicle for millennials” plan, wrote a personal essay on grief because it had to be said.The post went viral, resonating with readers of all ages who recognized its raw honesty.

These writers didn’t start with a spreadsheet of demographics; they started with curiosity, annoyance, awe, or pure love for a subject. The audience grew organically around that core.

5. Practical Strategies: How to Prioritise Your Voice Without Ignoring Readers

You don’t have to swing the pendulum completely to “write only for yourself.” Here’s a balanced workflow that preserves authenticity while still being considerate of readers:

  1. Start in the “Me‑Zone”
    • Freewrite for 15–20 minutes with the intention only of getting your own thoughts down. No audience in mind.
    • Ask yourself: What excites me? What irritates me? What can’t I stop thinking about?
  2. Step Back & Identify the Core
    • Highlight the central emotion or hook that made you write in the first place. This is the seed that will interest readers.
  3. Empathy Check
    • Switch hats: If a reader stumbled on this piece tomorrow, what would they need to understand the core quickly?
    • Tip: Write a one‑sentence pitch for a complete stranger. If you can convey the essence, you’re likely on the right track.
  4. Selective Polishing
    • Remove self‑censorship that dilutes your voice (e.g., “Maybe I shouldn’t use that slang”).
    • Add clarity where needed (explain a term, give context) without compromising tone.
  5. Feedback Loop
    • Share with a small, trusted group who value honesty over flattery. Ask: “Did my voice feel genuine? Was anything confusing?”
    • Use their notes to tighten the piece, not to rewrite it in their image.
  6. Release & Observe
    • Publish. Watch the comments, metrics, and, most importantly, your own emotional response.
    • If you feel proud, that pride will translate into future work that continues to attract kindred readers.

6. “What If” Scenarios: When Audience‑First Fails

ScenarioWhat Went WrongLesson Learned
A romance novelist writes only “safe” love‑stories to please the “mainstream market.”Stories lack tension; readers feel the plot is predictable and disengage.Authentic conflict—whether internal or external—drives investment.
A tech blogger avoids jargon to appeal to “non‑techies.”Content becomes vague; both novices and experts feel the article is unhelpful.Clarity doesn’t require “dumbing down”; it requires thoughtful explanation.
A poet tries to mimic the style of a bestselling poet to capture their fanbase.The work feels derivative; critics call it “imitative.”Originality beats mimicry; readers can spot a copycat from a mile away.

These cautionary tales reinforce the central truth: no amount of market research can substitute for genuine curiosity and personal investment. When you start building your work on the sand of “what I think they want,” you risk losing the solid foundation of your own voice.

7. The Sweet Spot: “Write for Yourself and Invite Others In”

Think of writing as hosting a party you love. You decorate the space, choose the playlist, and cook the food because you enjoy it. Then, you open the door and welcome guests. If the vibe feels authentic, the guests will stay, chat, and maybe even bring friends. If the party feels forced, no one will linger.

In practice, that means:

  • Let your passion be the headline. Your enthusiasm is contagious.
  • Use empathy as the entryway. A brief moment of “what would a reader need?” can help bridge the gap without muting your voice.
  • Accept that you’ll never please everyone. The goal isn’t universal approval; it’s a connection with those who resonate.

8. Takeaway Checklist

✅I’m writing because…
1I’m fascinated, angry, or moved by the subject.
2I have a unique angle that I can’t find elsewhere.
3I’m excited to experiment with form or language.
4I’m willing to edit for clarity, not for conformity.
5I’m open to feedback that enhances my voice, not replaces it.

If you can answer “yes” to at least three of these, you’re likely steering toward a piece that speaks both to you and, organically, to readers.

9. Final Thought

“Write for yourself, but don’t forget the world is listening.”

That paradox captures the sweet spot most writers chase: authenticity as your compass, empathy as your map. When you let your inner compass guide you, you’ll find that the world—sometimes unexpectedly—shows up at the destination you never planned.

So the next time you sit down at the keyboard, ask yourself: What would I write if no one were watching? Then, once the words flow, give them a quick glance to make sure the door is open enough for someone else to step inside.

Write boldly, edit kindly, and watch as the right readers find you—because they’ll be looking for the voice you could only have written.

Happy writing, and may your pages always feel like home.

If this post resonated with you, feel free to share your own experiences in the comments. How have you balanced personal passion with audience awareness?

Searching for Locations: Waitomo caves house, North Island, New Zealand

A relatively unassuming lane leads to what could be described as a grand hotel, called Waitomo Caves Hotel.

The original hotel was built in 1908, and it was later extended in 1928.  Part of it is ‘Victorian’, based on an eastern Europe mountain chalet, and part of it is ‘Art Deco’, the concrete wing, and a feature, if it could be called that, is none of the four corners are the same.

Views from the balcony show part of the surrounding gardens
 

and the town of Waitomo in the distance.
 

In gloomy weather, it does look rather spooky, and I suspect there may be a ghost or two lurking somewhere in the buildings.
 

 
But…
 

This a a very interesting, and the words of one of my younger grand daughters, a very creepy place. It would make an excellent base for paranormal activity, and there could very well be ghosts walking the corridors of this hotel.

It has the long darkish passageways that lead in all directions and to almost hidden rooms, a creepy nighttime aspect, and the creaky woodwork.

I know when we were exploring, it was easy to lose your bearings, if not get lost, trying to find certain places, and once found, hard to find your way back.

All in all, it was one of the best stays in a very old place going through the throes of modernisation.

And looking at it from the outside at night, I’ll leave you with that thought…

“Second Thoughts”, a short story

Get me to the church on time.

It was a tune out of My Fair Lady, and it was in my head the moment I woke up that morning.  And this day was, to quote some immortal’s line, was supposed to be the happiest day of my life.

But, somehow, it didn’t feel like that and lying under the warm covers of my bed, perhaps for the last time at my parent’s home, the last place I thought I’d find myself, I began to consider how it was I had ended up in this situation.

It was not a question of who the bride was, we had been friends from an early age and used to joke about getting married, but at the age of six or seven, that was a concept rather than something we might act on in the future.

Except that was how it panned out, and, not for the reasons one might think would lead to such an eventuality.

Yes, we were close friends till the early teens, then my family went in one direction, New York, and her family went in another, San Francisco, and in each place both families built successful businesses.

Josephine, the intended bride, and I met off and on over the next fifteen years, some of that mutually when we were at university together, and, I might add, living together.  Even then, there had been no suggestion of permanency because we each had to go home to eventually work in the family business.

In those few years, it had been easy because there had been no expectations by either of us.  We simply came together, stayed together, and parted at the end both happy to have enjoyed the experience.

Then, several events changed the course of our lives.

My father died unexpectedly at a crucial point in the company’s expansion, and without his direction, it began to flounder.  Then, Josephine arrived in New York to open a branch of her family’s business, and just happened to arrive on the day of my father’s funeral.

I thought it a coincidence and was grateful for her support at a time when I needed it.

A month after that, one of the lead investors in the new expansion plan pulled out, as was his right because the loan had been contingent on my father overseeing the project.  It was the end of a very bad week, and instead of being the last to leave the office, I left early, called up an old friend, Rollo, who had followed us to New York, and we went to his favourite bar.

He suggested a night on the town was called for and I agreed with him.  I think by that time I’d had enough of the problems for a few days.  But with Rollo, I learned no invitation was without its twists and turns, so when he said his sister was bringing a friend, I had to act happy even if I didn’t feel like it.  Her friends could be a little strange.

Another coincidence, the friend was Josephine.  Hearing from her once maybe, but twice in the same week, I didn’t think so, so I let it pass.  Yet despite my reservations, in the end, I had to admit I was glad to see her because the last thing I wanted to do was entertain a quirky woman I didn’t know.

Long story short, Josephine’s family business came aboard as the replacement investor, but not without some rather stringent requirements, and though no one on either side would admit it, it was suggested that perhaps Josephine and I would make an excellent match.  After all, we were childhood friends, had lived together without the problems that sometimes came with it, and we would be working very closely together.

I proposed, she accepted, and everyone was happy.

Well, not everyone.

I was down in the dining room getting breakfast, before the wedding, when Rollo arrived.  It went without saying Rollo was going to be the best man.

Curiously, he was neither surprised nor shocked to learn of my proposal, but it was a surprise to learn, in a roundabout way, he wasn’t exactly happy for me.  It was not anything I could put my finger on, but more of a feeling I had.  And, to be honest, before I had proposed to her, I was sure that Rollo had feelings for her, and at times I thought how much more sense it would make if they were together.

I’d even asked him once or twice if he liked her, and he just said they were friends.

The other side of that equation was his sister, Adrienne, who was, I thought, charming, funny, and sometimes a little offbeat, which is why I was drawn to her.  Over time, I think I may have developed feelings for her, but by the time those feelings were rising to the surface, I was advised that a woman of Josephine’s standing was more my type.

My mother could be very annoying at times, and whilst she might be looking after her son’s best interests, she was also looking after the company’s interests as best she could.  I suspect Josephine’s parents were the same, hoping their daughter would marry advantageously.

Rollo, being on the outside, had summed it up perfectly, ‘if this had been the eighteenth century there’s no doubt you two would be the perfect match’.

“You look as happy as I feel,” I said when I saw him.

“It’s going to be a big day, church wedding, in Latin of all languages, then the society event of the year.  What’s not to be happy about?”

Put like that, I shrugged.  “A registry office, burger and chips at the local diner, then a few days in the Catskills would have sufficed.”

“And on what planet do you think you are right now?”

I didn’t answer.  I simply poured another cup of black coffee and sat down.  It was a large room, with seats for a dozen, and I was the only one up.  I had expected a room full of family members, of which at least twenty were upstairs right now recovering from last night’s festivities.

Rollo poured some tea into a cup and sat opposite.  “OK.  What’s wrong?  Wedding day jitters?”

Could he read my mind?

“It just doesn’t seem right.  I mean, it seems we have been on this track forever, but you know, there’s something missing.”

“Love?”

Exactly.  It was another of those thoughts I had just before I got out of bed.  I liked her, maybe I loved her once, when I didn’t really know what love was, but now?  I don’t know what it was I felt about her.  I had been expecting those mythical thunderbolts to strike, but as the days, weeks, and months wore on, it just didn’t happen.

It was almost if we were going through the motions.

“It feels like it’s going to be a marriage of convenience.”  There, I said it.

And I expected Rollo to start having a fit.  Instead, he concentrated on putting three spoonful’s of sugar into his tea and stirring.  And stirring.  And stirring.

“Say something,” I said.  “Anything.  Tell me I’m being stupid, tell me to get out of my funk and screw my courage to the sticking place, or whatever it is you say in times like this.”

“It’s not like you to drop a bomb like this at a time like this…”

I felt he had more to say, the good part where he’d call me an ass, and then tell me to get my shit together.  It wouldn’t be the first time.

“But…”

“But I rather get the impression this wedding might not be going ahead.”

“It has to.  God knows how many people have put themselves out to be here.  It was, my mother said, a logistical nightmare.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time this has happened.”

“You’re supposed to be arguing for the wedding, not against it.”

“I would if I knew your heart was in it.  But it isn’t, is it?  I think you’ve spent so much time trying to please everyone else, that you have forgotten about yourself.  I know you’re not happy.  I also happen to know that Jo isn’t either.”

“You’ve spoken to her?”

“Just before I got here.  Call her.  You two need to talk.  In the meantime, you’re going to have to repay a huge debt after I somehow manage to sort this mess out.  My car’s outside.  Leave now, and I’ll let you know when it’s safe to return.”

“Where will I go?”

He smiled.  “I’m sure you’ll know by the time you get in the car.”

It was reckless and would cause a lot of pain and anguish for my mother, but I considered how much more pain it would cause to Josephine if I didn’t call it off.

I made the call on the way upstairs to finish dressing.

“I’m assuming you’ve spoken to Rollo?”  She didn’t wait for me to speak.

“You feel the same way?”

“It started out with the best of intentions, but I can’t help thinking if we were right for each other we would have married after university.  We are best friends, Alan, and I don’t think it’s ever going to progress from there.  I know you feel that too, it’s just the pressure from our families has managed to mask our true feelings.”

“Do you have any idea what sort of storm is about to erupt?”

“Everyone will get over it.  There’s too much at stake on both sides for there to be any real or lasting consequences.  I guess Rollo is going to have his work cut out for him.  I’ll see you one the other side.”

She didn’t say what other side, but I suspect it meant when the dust had settled.

I literally ran downstairs, mainly because I heard movement and didn’t want to run into anyone, and out the door towards Rollo’s car.

Once again I had to admire the fact he had exquisite taste in cars, and the one he’d brought was no exception, a Lamborghini, yellow, fast, and he knew I wanted to drive it.

What I didn’t expect. His sister, Phoebe, sitting in the passenger seat.

© Charles Heath 2019

Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

…

How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect them.

In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.

I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.

Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half-brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.

There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.

Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.

It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.

For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.

It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.

Sayings: Beyond the pale

I’ve often said, when espying an injustice that was so outrageously displayed that no one could miss it, as being beyond the pale.

The pale within a fence became an area of land within a boundary, such as a county, and then areas within Ireland that were held by the British. As these became smaller, those areas were deemed to be uncivilised.

This, in modern parlance, beyond the pale refers to someone’s behaviour being outside the accepted norm.

There’s also…

In a word: Pale

Which is the colour of the face of a person who is usually desperately unwell?

As distinct from a pale face, a white man is described by the American Indians. This, sadly, was learned from American westerns, motion pictures that told a rather interesting version of events between the Indians and the new settlers.

Paleface was in one movie, in particular, Bob Hope.

A pale can also be a single upright piece of wood in a fence.

Something could pale into significance or be a pale imitation of a better-quality article.

Not to be confused with a pail, which is a bucket, wooden or otherwise, that holds liquids.

The most famous of which is that which Jack and Jill went up a hill to fetch a pail of water, and, well, you know how that ended.

An excerpt from “Amnesia”, a work in progress

I remembered a bang.

I remembered the car slewing sideways.

I remember another bang, and then it was lights out.

When I opened my eyes again, I saw the sky.

Or I could be underwater.

Everything was blurred.

I tried to focus, but I couldn’t. My eyes were full of water.

What happened?

Why was I lying down?

Where was I?

I cast my mind back, trying to remember.

It was a blank.

What, when, who, why and where are questions I should easily be able to answer. These are questions any normal person could answer.

I tried to move. Bad, bad mistake.

I did not realise the scream I heard was my own. Just before my body shut down.

“My God! What happened?”

I could hear, not see. I was moving, lying down, looking up.

I was blind. Everything was black.

“Car accident; hit a tree, sent the passenger flying through the windscreen. Pity to poor bastard didn’t get the message that seat belts save lives.”

Was I that poor bastard?

“Report?” A new voice, male, authoritative.

“Multiple lacerations, broken collar bone, broken arm in three places, both legs broken below the knees, one badly. We are not sure of internal injuries, but ruptured spleen, cracked ribs and pierced right lung are fairly evident, x-rays will confirm that and anything else.”

“What isn’t broken?”

“His neck.”

“Then I would have to say we are looking at the luckiest man on the planet.”

I heard the shuffling of pages.

“OR1 ready?”

“Yes. On standby since we were first advised.”

“Good. Let’s see if we can weave some magic.”

Magic.

It was the first word that popped into my head when I surfaced from the bottom of the lake. That first breath, after holding it for so long, was sublime, and, in reality, agonising.

Magic, because it seemed like I’d spent a long time underwater.

Or somewhere.

I tried to speak but couldn’t. The words were just in my head.

Was it night or was it day?

Was it hot, or was it cold?

Where was I?

Around me, it felt cool.

It was incredibly quiet. No noise except for the hissing of air through an air-conditioning vent. Or that was the sound of pure silence.  And with it the revelation that silence was not silent. It was noisy.

I didn’t try to move.

Instinctively, somehow, I knew not to.

A previous unpleasant experience?

I heard what sounded like a door opening, and noticeably quiet footsteps slowly came into the room. They stopped. I could hear breathing, slightly laboured, a sound I’d heard before.

My grandfather.

He had smoked all his life until he was diagnosed with lung cancer. But for years before that, he had emphysema. The person in the room was on their way down the same path. I could smell the smoke.

I wanted to tell whoever it was the hazards of smoking.

I couldn’t.

I heard a metallic clanging sound from the end of the bed. A moment later, the clicking of a pen, then writing.

“You are in a hospital.” A female voice suddenly said. “You’ve been in a bad accident. You cannot talk or move; all you can do, for the moment, is listen to me. I am a nurse. You have been here for 45 days and just came out of a medically induced coma. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

She had a very soothing voice.

Her fingers stroked the back of my hand.

“Everything is fine.”

Define fine, I thought. I wanted to ask her what ‘fine’ meant.

“Just count backwards from 10.”

Why?

I didn’t reach seven.

Over the next ten days, that voice became my lifeline to sanity. Every morning, I longed to hear it, if only for the few moments she was in the room, those few waking moments when I believed she, and someone else who never spoke, were doing tests. I knew it had to be someone else because I could smell the essence of lavender. My grandmother had worn a similar scent.

It rose above the disinfectant.

She was another doctor, not the one who had been there the day I arrived. Not the one who had used some ‘magic’ and kept me alive.

It was then, in those moments before she put me under again, that I thought, what if I was paralysed? It would explain a lot. A chill went through me.

The next morning, she was back.

“My name is Winifred. We don’t know what your name is, not yet. In a few days, you will be better, and you will be able to ask us questions. You were in an accident, and you were very severely injured, but I can assure you there will be no lasting damage.”

More tests, and then when I expected the lights to go out, they didn’t. Not for a few minutes more. This was how I would be integrated back into the world. A little bit at a time.

The next morning, she came later than usual, and I’d been awake for a few minutes. “You have bandages over your eyes and face. You had bad lacerations to your face and glass in your eyes. We will know more when the bandages come off in a few days. Your face will take longer to heal. It was necessary to do some plastic surgery.”

Lacerations, glass in my eyes, car accidents, plastic surgery. By logical deduction, I knew I was the poor bastard thrown through the windscreen. It was a fleeting memory from the day I was admitted.

How could that happen?

That was the first of many startling revelations. The second was the fact that I could not remember the crash. Equally shocking, in that same moment, was the fact that I could not remember before the crash either, or only vague memories after.

But the most shattering of all these revelations was the one where I realised I could not remember my name.

I tried to calm down, sensing a rising panic.

I was just disoriented, I told myself. After 45 days in an induced coma, it had messed with my mind, and it was only a temporary lapse. Yes, that’s what it was, a temporary lapse. I will remember tomorrow. Or the next day.

Sleep was a blessed relief.

The next day I didn’t wake up feeling nauseous. I think they’d lowered the pain medication. I’d heard that morphine could have that effect. Then, how could I know that but not who I am?

Now I knew Winifred, the nurse, was preparing me for something unbelievably bad. She was upbeat and soothing, giving me a new piece of information each morning. This morning, “You do not need to be afraid. Everything is going to be fine. The doctor tells me you are going to recover with little scarring. You will need some physiotherapy to recover from your physical injuries, but that’s in the future. We need to let you mend a little bit more before then.”

So, I was not going to be able to leap out of bed and walk out of the hospital any time soon. I don’t suppose I’d ever leapt out of bed, except as a young boy. I suspect I’d sustained a few broken bones. I guess learning to walk again was the least of my problems.

But there was something else. I picked it up in the timbre of her voice, a hesitation, or reluctance. It sent another chill through me.

This time, I was left awake for an hour before she returned.

This time, sleep was restless.

Scenes were playing in my mind, nothing I recognised, and nothing lasting longer than a glimpse. Me. Other people, I didn’t know. Or I knew them and couldn’t remember them.

Until they disappeared, slowly like the glowing dot in the centre of the computer screen, before finally fading to black.

The morning the bandages were to come off, she came in early and woke me. I had another restless night, the images becoming clearer, but nothing recognisable.

“This morning, the doctor will be removing the bandages over your eyes. Don’t expect an immediate effect. Your sight may come back quickly, or it may come back slowly, but we believe it will come back.”

I wanted to believe I was not expecting anything, but I was. It was human nature. I did not want to be blind as well as paralysed. I had to have at least one reason to live.

I dozed again until I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. I could smell the lavender; the other doctor was back. And I knew the hand on my shoulder was Winifred’s. She told me not to be frightened.

I was amazed to realise at that moment, I wasn’t.

I heard the scissors cutting the bandages.

I felt the bandage being removed and the pressure coming off my eyes. I could feel the pads covering both eyes.

Then a moment when nothing happened.

Then the pads are gently lifted and removed.

Nothing.

I blinked my eyes, once, twice. Nothing.

“Just hold on a moment,” Winifred said. A few seconds later, I could feel a cool towel wiping my face, and then gently wiping my eyes. There was ointment or something else in them.

Then a flash. Well, not a flash, but like when a light is turned on and off. A moment later, it was brighter, not the inky blackness of before, but a shade of grey.

She wiped my eyes again.

I blinked a few more times, and then the light returned, and it was like looking through water, at distorted and blurry objects in the distance.

I blinked again, and she wiped my eyes again.

Blurry objects took shape. A face looking down on me, an elderly lady with a kindly face, surely Winifred, who was smiling. And on the opposite side of the bed, the doctor, a Chinese woman of indescribable beauty.

I nodded.

“You can see?”

I nodded again.

“Clearly?”

I nodded.

“Very good. We will just draw the curtains now. We don’t want to overdo it. Tomorrow we will be taking off the bandages on your face. Then, it will be the next milestone. Talking.”

I couldn’t wait.

When morning came, I found myself afraid. Winifred had mentioned scarring; there were bandages on my face. I knew, but wasn’t quite sure how I knew, I wasn’t the most handsome of men before the accident, so this might be an improvement.

I was not sure why I didn’t think it would be the case.

They came at mid-morning, the nurse, Winifred, and the doctor, the exquisite Chinese. She was the distraction, taking my mind off the reality of what I was about to see.

Another doctor came into the room before the bandages were removed, and he was introduced as the plastic surgeon who had ‘repaired’ the ravages of the accident. It had been no easy job, but, with a degree of egotism, he did say he was one of the best in the world.

I found it hard to believe that if he were, he would be at a small country hospital.

“Now just remember, what you might see now is not how you will look in a few months.”

Warning enough.

The Chinese doctor started removing the bandages. She did it slowly and made sure it did not hurt. My skin was very tender, and I suspect still bruised, either from the accident or the surgery, I didn’t know.

Then it was done.

The plastic surgeon gave his work a thorough examination and seemed pleased with it. “Coming along nicely,” he said to the other doctor. He issued some instructions on how to manage the skin, nodded to me, and I thanked him before he left.

I noticed Winifred had a mirror in her hand and was reticent in using it. “As I said,” she said, noticing me looking at the mirror, “what you see now will not be the result. The doctor said it was going to heal with little scarring. You have been extremely fortunate that he was available. Are you ready?”

I nodded.

She showed me.

I tried not to be reviled at the red and purple mess that used to be my face. At a guess, I would have to say he had to put it all back together again, but not knowing what I looked like before, I had no benchmark. All I had was a snippet of memory that told me I was not the tall, dark, and handsome type.

And I still could not talk. There was a reason; he had worked in that area too. Just breathing hurt. I think I would save up anything I had to say for another day. I could not even smile. Or frown. Or grimace.

“We’ll leave you for a while. Everyone needs a little time to get used to the change. I suspect you are not sure if there has been an improvement in last year’s model. Well, time will tell.”

A new face?

I could not remember the old one.

My memory still hadn’t returned.

…

©  Charles Heath  2024-2026

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 85

Day 85 – Writing to please yourself

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Writing for Yourself vs. Writing for an Audience

Why trying to please a “target reader” can lead you straight into a creative dead‑end—and how embracing your own voice can actually broaden your reach.

1. The Age‑Old Dilemma

Every writer, from the novice journal keeper to the seasoned novelist, has heard the mantra: “Know your audience.” In marketing circles, it’s a golden rule, in academic circles, it’s a prerequisite for a good paper, and in creative writing workshops, it’s often presented as a safety net: “If you write for someone who actually wants to read your work, you’ll have a better chance of success.”

But there’s a darker side to that advice. When the phrase “target audience” becomes a prescriptive checklist, it can morph into a self‑imposed prison. You start asking:

* Should I tone down my humour because “my readers don’t get sarcasm”?*
* Do I need to avoid political opinions because “my audience is 50‑something retirees”?*
* Must I keep my protagonist’s journey “relatable” in a way that feels forced?*

The result? A story that sounds less like you and more like a diluted version of what you think they want. In the worst cases, the writing turns bland, generic, and ultimately forgettable.

2. The Myth of the “Perfect Reader”

The idea that a single, monolithic reader exists—someone who will love everything you write—is a comforting illusion. In reality:

Reader TypeTypical ExpectationReality
The “Ideal Fan”Loves every plot twist, character, and stylistic quirk.No one loves everything; even the biggest fans have pet peeves.
The “Critical Scholar”Demands flawless structure and deep subtext.Even experts can disagree on what qualifies as “deep.”
The “Casual Browser”Wants light, easy‑to‑digest content.They might actually crave something thought‑provoking if presented well.
The “Niche Enthusiast”Wants high‑level technical detail.Over‑explaining can alienate newcomers; under‑explaining can feel lazy.

Because each individual brings a unique mix of experience, mood, and personal bias to the page, any attempt to write for a single archetype is fundamentally speculative. You can only guess what will click, and even the most data‑driven predictions can’t account for the serendipitous spark that makes a reader fall in love with a line.

3. Writing for You: The Unexpected Advantage

When you write primarily for yourself, a few things happen that actually help reach a broader audience:

What Happens When You Write for YourselfWhy It Helps the Reader
Authentic Voice EmergesReaders pick up on sincerity. A genuine tone feels trustworthy and invites empathy.
Risk‑Taking Becomes NaturalYou’re more willing to experiment with structure, language, or theme—creating fresh experiences for the reader.
Consistency Beats ConformityA clear personal style becomes a brand. Readers know what to expect (and love it), even if the genre shifts.
Passion Fuels PersistenceWriting is hard. When the work matters to you, you’re more likely to edit, rewrite, and polish.

Think of it as a two‑way street: the more you love what you write, the more chance there is that someone else will love it too. Authenticity is magnetic; calculated pandering is often invisible.

4. Real‑World Examples

AuthorWhat They DidResult
Haruki MurakamiWrote stories about jazz bars, cats, and surreal parallel worlds because those obsessions fascinated him.Global cult following; readers across continents adore his “oddly specific” voice.
David MitchellMixed historical fiction with speculative sci‑fi purely because he loved the “what‑if” of time travel.Critical acclaim and a wildly diverse readership attracted to his genre‑bending narratives.
Samantha “Sam” Cole (fictional indie blogger)Abandoned a “listicle for millennials” plan, wrote a personal essay on grief because it had to be said.The post went viral, resonating with readers of all ages who recognized its raw honesty.

These writers didn’t start with a spreadsheet of demographics; they started with curiosity, annoyance, awe, or pure love for a subject. The audience grew organically around that core.

5. Practical Strategies: How to Prioritise Your Voice Without Ignoring Readers

You don’t have to swing the pendulum completely to “write only for yourself.” Here’s a balanced workflow that preserves authenticity while still being considerate of readers:

  1. Start in the “Me‑Zone”
    • Freewrite for 15–20 minutes with the intention only of getting your own thoughts down. No audience in mind.
    • Ask yourself: What excites me? What irritates me? What can’t I stop thinking about?
  2. Step Back & Identify the Core
    • Highlight the central emotion or hook that made you write in the first place. This is the seed that will interest readers.
  3. Empathy Check
    • Switch hats: If a reader stumbled on this piece tomorrow, what would they need to understand the core quickly?
    • Tip: Write a one‑sentence pitch for a complete stranger. If you can convey the essence, you’re likely on the right track.
  4. Selective Polishing
    • Remove self‑censorship that dilutes your voice (e.g., “Maybe I shouldn’t use that slang”).
    • Add clarity where needed (explain a term, give context) without compromising tone.
  5. Feedback Loop
    • Share with a small, trusted group who value honesty over flattery. Ask: “Did my voice feel genuine? Was anything confusing?”
    • Use their notes to tighten the piece, not to rewrite it in their image.
  6. Release & Observe
    • Publish. Watch the comments, metrics, and, most importantly, your own emotional response.
    • If you feel proud, that pride will translate into future work that continues to attract kindred readers.

6. “What If” Scenarios: When Audience‑First Fails

ScenarioWhat Went WrongLesson Learned
A romance novelist writes only “safe” love‑stories to please the “mainstream market.”Stories lack tension; readers feel the plot is predictable and disengage.Authentic conflict—whether internal or external—drives investment.
A tech blogger avoids jargon to appeal to “non‑techies.”Content becomes vague; both novices and experts feel the article is unhelpful.Clarity doesn’t require “dumbing down”; it requires thoughtful explanation.
A poet tries to mimic the style of a bestselling poet to capture their fanbase.The work feels derivative; critics call it “imitative.”Originality beats mimicry; readers can spot a copycat from a mile away.

These cautionary tales reinforce the central truth: no amount of market research can substitute for genuine curiosity and personal investment. When you start building your work on the sand of “what I think they want,” you risk losing the solid foundation of your own voice.

7. The Sweet Spot: “Write for Yourself and Invite Others In”

Think of writing as hosting a party you love. You decorate the space, choose the playlist, and cook the food because you enjoy it. Then, you open the door and welcome guests. If the vibe feels authentic, the guests will stay, chat, and maybe even bring friends. If the party feels forced, no one will linger.

In practice, that means:

  • Let your passion be the headline. Your enthusiasm is contagious.
  • Use empathy as the entryway. A brief moment of “what would a reader need?” can help bridge the gap without muting your voice.
  • Accept that you’ll never please everyone. The goal isn’t universal approval; it’s a connection with those who resonate.

8. Takeaway Checklist

✅I’m writing because…
1I’m fascinated, angry, or moved by the subject.
2I have a unique angle that I can’t find elsewhere.
3I’m excited to experiment with form or language.
4I’m willing to edit for clarity, not for conformity.
5I’m open to feedback that enhances my voice, not replaces it.

If you can answer “yes” to at least three of these, you’re likely steering toward a piece that speaks both to you and, organically, to readers.

9. Final Thought

“Write for yourself, but don’t forget the world is listening.”

That paradox captures the sweet spot most writers chase: authenticity as your compass, empathy as your map. When you let your inner compass guide you, you’ll find that the world—sometimes unexpectedly—shows up at the destination you never planned.

So the next time you sit down at the keyboard, ask yourself: What would I write if no one were watching? Then, once the words flow, give them a quick glance to make sure the door is open enough for someone else to step inside.

Write boldly, edit kindly, and watch as the right readers find you—because they’ll be looking for the voice you could only have written.

Happy writing, and may your pages always feel like home.

If this post resonated with you, feel free to share your own experiences in the comments. How have you balanced personal passion with audience awareness?

“The Devil You Don’t”, she was the girl you would not take home to your mother!

Now only $0.99 at https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities, and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.

Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.

If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.

At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.

That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.

Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.

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