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!

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

I’m not a fan of romance novels but …

There was something about this one that resonated with me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But is it all the truth?

What would we do in similar circumstances?

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

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

…

Available on Amazon here: amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…

In a word: Left

The word left conjures up many interesting connotations such as:

Left at the altar, not a very nice occurrence but an oft-used scenario to fuel a Romcom

Should have turned left at Albuquerque, used by Bugs Bunny in a cartoon I saw once, and now basically is the go-to phrase when you get lost and have to tell someone

Lefties, not exactly the word but oft used to describe one side of politics usually leaning towards socialism or communism, or perhaps simply because they don’t agree with us

They’re coming at us left, right, and centre, meaning people, or some other object, are coming from everywhere, that is, from all directions

But one of some more simple explanations, I’m left-handed, which means I write with my left hand.

Only that doesn’t mean that I’m left-handed at everything because I’m right-handed using a bat and playing golf.  How does that work?

Turn left which means you turn in a specific direction, directly opposite to another direction, right, but I defy you to describe exactly how to turn left!

Oh, and by the way, I often get left and right mixed up.

There was only one slice of cake left, which means someone else ate it all, or that there’s one slice remaining, and you’d better be quick getting it.

Or probably the saddest of the examples, I left London to go home, meaning that I had to depart a place I wanted to stay but circumstances dictated I had to leave.  Usually, you have to go back to work where you came from, but more realistically you couldn’t afford to stay.

In politics, if you are a right-wing conservative, anyone from the other side is a left-wing lunatic.  Politics can be very polarising and there is often an all-or-nothing approach to the opposition. Rarely is there a middle of the road.

An excerpt from “Echoes from the Past”

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

…

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

That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

A yellow car stopped inches from me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now my imagination was playing tricks.

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

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

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

Just in case.

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

newechocover5rs

The fifth attempt, and now it’s a launching pad

I have a stab at improving this starting piece every now and then, a project that started about a year or so ago, and I find myself rewriting the start over and over because I’m not satisfied with the characterization.

It’s not so much the storyline, as it is in trying to create sympathy for the character, and not find him as dull as Ditchwater.  But that takes words, and no one wants to read a biography when they want full-on mayhem.

As writers, we tend to create colourful characters and shy away from those who are dull and boring, because after all, as a reader, you want to become something or someone who is far from ordinary. 

Well, Sam/Graham has a past, and it might catch up with him, but just not in the way he imagined it might. I haven’t quite decided what that past is, but hiding out under witness protection, or just hiding away from a world that he no longer understands is still in the balance.

…

They say trouble comes when you least expect it.

I can attest to that. It does.

I was at the end of my shift. Another shift, another bright, another 10 hours of my life gone, doing a job that, had you asked me 20 years ago would I be here, I would have said no.

Circumstances and stupidity put me here, and it’s not as if I didn’t deserve it. I was told I had choices, and I did, but I didn’t make the right one.

There are excuses, but that was all they were; excuses.

Jim was like me, and like Joe, and like Mike. My name was Sam. They were easy names to remember, we didn’t need to know much more than that, only that we had each other’s back.

“Usual weekend?” Jim asked.

I was heading towards the kitchen to get my small fridge bag, then out the back door and off home.

“The boat and the lake await.”

“You still expecting to find fish in that swamp?” Mike had been with me one weekend, and nothing took the bait.

After six or so months I was beginning to think the locals were right. There were no fish.

“Miracles can still happen.”

“Yeah, right. You should come hunting with us.”

“Don’t like guns.”

Not any more, anyway. There was a time I was happy to use one, when I had purpose, and there was a reason to use it.

“Then why pick a job that needs one?”

“Chances of having to use it, zero, Mike. If I have to I will, but until then…”

I left it there. We’d had this conversation and it always ended the same way.

I collected the bag, told them I’d see them next Monday, the start of the next shift, and stepped out the back door into the early morning dawn, that period just as the light came.

Silent, fresh, the promise of either a good day or a bad. I wasn’t sure. I glanced over towards the car and it was covered in snow.  The weather was clear now, but I could feel more snow was coming.  A white Christmas?  That’s all I needed. 

As I approached my car, the light went on inside an SUV parked next to my car.  The door opened and what looked to be a woman was getting out of the car.

“Graham?”

That was another thing about the members of my team. Our current first names were not necessarily our real names. It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time.

I looked again and was shocked to see my ultra-successful sister, Penelope.  She was leaning against the front side fender, and from what I could see, didn’t look too well.

How on earth did she find me, after all the years that had passed?  Perhaps that sparked my un-conciliatory question, “What do you want?”

I could see the surprise and then the hurt in her expression.  Perhaps I had been a little harsh.  Whatever she felt, it passed and she said, “Help.”

My help?  Help with what? I was the last person who could help her, or anyone for that matter, with anything.   But curiosity got the better of me.  “Why?”

“I think my husband is trying to kill me.”

Then, with that said, she slid down the side of the car, and I could see, in the arc lamps lighting the car park, a trail of blood.

My first thought was she needed the help of a doctor, not a stupid brother, then a second thought, to call 911, which I did, and hoped like hell they got here in time.

And, yes, there was a third thought that crossed my mind.  Whether or not I would be blamed for this event.

…

So, from the last version to this, I decided we didn’t need a sob story, it’s one that can play out as and when circumstances require an explanation for our main character’s disposition.

And I have this renewed vigour for getting into action as soon as possible, and, as you can imagine a lot more is about to happen, in about three sentences time.

Exactly what that is, you will have to wait…

…

© Charles Heath 2022-2025

The fourth attempt, other factors, and people

Two other characters will be used in this rewrite; the second is an addition to give the main character a means of letting the reader get to know a bit about him.

His name is Milt, an African American who’s always been on the fringe.  Another is a victim of his circumstances, but not letting it get the better of him, the sort of man who makes the best of a bad situation.

He’s seen active service in the army, honourably discharged, but still affected, though not as bad as some of those he served with.  He is, in fact, the ideal man for the job, with combat experience, so he’s not likely to get flustered in a shit storm.

And probably not the man you want on this site.  Being in desperate circumstances doesn’t mean you do desperate things.

He is one of a team of four, and our main character drew the straw to partner with him.  There are two others, based on the other side of the park, neither of whom is trustworthy: Smithy, the overall leader, to whom they all report at shift start and end, and Carruthers, an Englishman reputed to be ex-SAS, but no one is inclined to believe him. 

The scars on his neck tell a story, but it was left to the other’s imagination, as he doesn’t talk about it.  Milt believed he was captured in Afghanistan and tortured, but that could just be canteen scuttlebutt.

Whatever the circumstances, Graham kept away from him as much as possible and was glad when he didn’t have to partner with him for the shift.

The other character, Penelope, is featured in the earlier versions of the story.  Over the changes, her background has changed, but I’ve settled on a medical surgeon career, renowned for doing tricky procedures with a high success rate, and in doing so, gained a reputation, some not always good.

Wealth and ego don’t always make a good pair, and marrying wealth brings its own rewards and pitfalls, particularly when you discover the man you married isn’t exactly who you thought he was.

It is, of course, a typical scenario, but I’m going to try and weave it differently.  There will be no more teasers until the story starts.

But she will be introduced earlier than in the previous iterations because she needs some backstory, too; otherwise, just arriving at Graham’s work and getting shot, while provoking a volatile situation that drags the reader in and out of left field, is not exactly the best start.

So, let’s begin.

…

© Charles Heath 2024

Writing about writing a book – Day 12 continues

Digging deeper into the war.

There is always something to be found that can be very interesting, and sometimes, when following more obscure links in web pages, you can either finish up having your computer trashed, or you find a gem.

As you can imagine, when I saw the CIA, I thought, OK, this fits my penchant for conspiracies and subterfuge, and when I stumbled across this thing called the Phoenix Program.  Whether it existed or not, one can never sure when reading about CIA activities, its premise gives me an avenue to attach a few shady characters and let them run with it.

Then, of course, there was a film which I noticed was on cable TV, so I watched it.  Air America, and whether that was true or not, it gave me another idea, and so the characterization of Colonel Davenport will fit into both these scenarios.

I suspect there may have been one or two more enterprising officers who saw an opportunity to not only appear to fulfill the parameters of their mission, but also make a little money on the side, setting up an operation within an operation, whether it’s to move into a black market arms supply, or moving and selling drugs from what was called the golden triangle that may or may not have included Cambodia.

That also lends itself to Davenport, when Bill finally catches on to what he is up to, arranging for his capture and removal to a prisoner of war campo over the border in Cambodia.  It could also probably have been in Laos, at the CIA may or may not have been running an operation there as well.

There is so much now to consider.

I now have to find out about airbases and personnel, come up with a suitable band of misfits, find out what sort of aircraft and land transport could be involved in moving the contraband, and a little more about Saigon back in the mid-sixties.

 

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 17

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now it looks like he’s been renditioned by his own people.

 

Seeing Colonel Bamfield made my blood run cold.

This wasn’t an old commanding officer coming to see one of his protégés after being almost killed in a bad accident.

This was a man checking up on me, and whether or not I had relayed any of the details of my incarceration at the mystery camp in the desert.

The thing is, he didn’t have to come calling if I had said anything Breeman would have reported it directly to her superiors.

No, he was here for another reason, and one I had no doubt I was not going to like.

Firstly, it was apparent the feelings of dislike and mistrust ran deep between the two, and I could see, on first sight, there had been something between them once, and it had exploded on someone, and I suspect it was Breeman.

Male officers of Bamfield rank rarely got into trouble for fraternising with lower ranked female officers.  It was, I was told once, a man’s army, not for women.

And I expect Bamfield was old school.

He looked at me then at her.  “How is our patient?”

Our patient?  How did he have anything to do with me, unless he was reclaiming me for his command.

“Sergeant Digwater has a name, and he is not your patient.”  The accompanying look on her face told me that Bamfield better be ready for war.

“Perhaps that might be the case for now, but I have given orders to temporarily detach Sergeant Digwater from this command and assign him temporally to mine so that he can be sent to our medical facility in Germany before being sent home.  The sergeant has done enough for his country.”

Had I?  It was customary to patch soldiers like me up if the injuries were not life-threatening, and then send them back to the front line.  I had, as far as I was aware, a few broken bones, and nothing that a month or two of physical therapy wouldn’t put straight.

Besides, as a loner, I had made the Army my home, and where most of the people I knew were.  As a civilian, I would be like a fish out of water.

“Do I get to choose what happens to me?”  I spoke for the first time, directly at both of them.

Bamfield answered.  “No.”  Then gave me a genial look.  “How are you, Sam.  I’ve spoken to the doctors, and they say all you need is rest and recuperation and you’ll be as good as new.  But I want to know how you feel?”

I gave him a measured look.  “I would have to say a lot worse than a few days ago.”

His expression changed as a result of those words.  Breeman’s expression was a lot more interesting, processing what that statement might mean.

She was about to ask when he interrupted her.  “Understandable, since you were found unconscious in the cabin of the crashed aircraft.  A case perhaps of a delayed reaction.  You should tell the medics you need more pain killers.”  He then turned to Breeman.  “The sergeant will be evacuated at 0800 hours tomorrow morning.  Until then, no one is to visit him until he is debriefed.  Am I clear?”

Breeman stood.  She was a good six inches shorter than Bamfield in stature, and at least 100 pound in weight.  Still, she projected a formidable opponent.

“I take it that does not include me?”

“What part of everyone did you not understand?”

Fighting words and she was ready to take up the battle.  Except, I think she knew she was outranked, and if push came to shove, it was not worth losing her command over the visiting of a lowly Sergeant.  This was pulling rank at its worst.

“Something’s not right here,” she said.  “And you can be assured I will get to the bottom of it.”  A final glare in his direction and she left, almost slamming the ward door behind her.

Bamfield waited a moment to make sure she had left, then addressed me.

“What have you said about your time missing?”

“Nothing.  If anything I was almost sure you’d turn up.  I had no intention of telling her what happened to me because I’m not sure myself.  I don’t remember having any broken bones.”

“You had to look like you were in a crash, not sitting in a cell for the time you were missing.  I suggest you keep our discussion to yourself, and remember, we could have sent you back in a body bag.  The debriefing crew will be here in an hour or so.”

“What am I supposed to tell them?”

“Whatever you want.  It won’t go any further than them because they are assigned to me.  Now, I have to work to get back to.  I might see you again in Germany, but if I don’t, enjoy the rest of your life.”

The way he said it, I didn’t think this visit would be the last time I saw him.  Like Breeman said, something was not right.

He had a brief word to the guard, another soldier he had brought with him, and left him on guard outside the ward door.  It looked to me like he didn’t take Breeman at her word she wouldn’t return.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

Writing a book in 365 days – 281

Day 281

Dense conspiracies and zany plotting

…

Spinning Shadows into Sparkle: The Zany Art of Conspiracy Comedy

Isn’t it fascinating how our minds gravitate towards patterns in the chaos? How the whispered “what if” can quickly blossom into a sprawling, intricate web of secret societies, hidden agendas, and dark forces pulling the strings? The appeal of a good conspiracy is undeniable, tapping into our deepest fears and our innate desire for meaning, even if that meaning points to malevolent forces.

But what if those shadowy figures wear mismatched socks? What if their nefarious plot hinges on the strategic deployment of artisanal pickles? What if the hero unearthing the truth is less a grizzled detective and more a bewildered barista?

This, my friends, is the magical alchemy we’re talking about: taking the genuine chill of darkness and paranoia, threading a dense tapestry of conspiracy, and then weaving through it with a generous dose of tongue-in-cheek humour and a plot so zany it practically winks at you. It’s a delicate dance, a narrative tightrope walk, but when executed well, it creates some of the most memorable and beloved stories out there.

So, how do we try to achieve this glorious narrative concoction?

1. Acknowledging the Shadow: The Foundation of Fear

You can’t have effective satire without a genuine understanding of what you’re satirizing. The first step in threading dense conspiracies with humour is to start with the darkness. The paranoia needs to feel real, at least initially. The stakes should, at some level, be genuinely high.

  • How we do it: We establish an underlying threat that feels substantial. The shadowy organisation is powerful. Their goals are unsettling. Without that genuine undercurrent of dread, the humour lands flat. It’s the contrast with this genuine darkness that makes the absurdity sing. Imagine a secret society plotting global domination – that’s the serious core.

2. The Intricate Web: Conspiracies You Can (Almost) Believe

A “dense conspiracy” isn’t just a list of random bad things happening. It’s an interconnected narrative, a puzzle where every piece seems to fit, even if the grand picture is utterly bonkers.

  • How we do it: We layer the clues, introduce a cast of characters with mysterious motives, and connect the dots between the utterly mundane and the outrageously sinister. Perhaps a global drought is linked to a mega-corp’s new line of flavored seltzer. Maybe the disappearance of garden gnomes is a precursor to an alien invasion. The logic, however flawed, must be internally consistent within its own absurd framework. The more intricate the web, the more satisfying its eventual, often ridiculous, unraveling. It makes the audience feel smart for “figuring it out,” even if what they’ve figured out is that pigeons are the true global overlords.

3. The Knowing Wink: Tongue-in-Cheek Humour

This isn’t slapstick for its own sake (though a little never hurt!). “Tongue-in-cheek” implies a shared understanding, a subtle nod to the audience that “we know this is ridiculous, and that’s the point.”

  • How we do it:
    • Character-driven absurdity: A villain who meticulously plans world domination but forgets their lunch. A reluctant hero whose biggest concern is finding strong coffee. The deadpan delivery of utterly insane dialogue.
    • Situational irony: The world-ending device being housed in a municipal library’s lost-and-found. The most devastating secret being revealed on a children’s TV show.
    • Subversion of tropes: Taking every classic conspiracy theory cliché (the all-seeing eye, the secret handshake, the cryptic message) and twisting it just enough to make it funny without losing its essence.
    • Self-awareness: The narrative often winks at its own ridiculousness, but never breaks character entirely. It’s about finding the humor within the grand conspiracy, not just overlaying it.

4. Embracing the Bizarre: The Zany Plot

This is where the gloves come off and imagination truly runs wild. If the conspiracy is the skeleton, the zany plot is the vibrant, unpredictable flesh.

  • How we do it: We throw out conventional narrative structures and embrace escalating absurdity. Where a secret society’s ultimate weapon might be a mind-control disco ball, or the key to decoding ancient alien texts involves mastering the art of interpretive dance. The plot twists aren’t just unexpected; they’re wildly, joyfully ludicrous. The solutions to the grand mystery are often simpler (or infinitely more complicated) than anyone could have imagined. Think unexpected car chases involving unicycles, secret lair entrances hidden behind a perpetually broken vending machine, or a climax involving a very confused squirrel.

5. The Secret Sauce: Balance and Juxtaposition

Ultimately, the magic lies in the blend. It’s a constant push and pull between the serious and the silly, the ominous and the outright absurd.

  • How we do it:
    • Pacing: We know when to lean into the genuine tension and dread for a moment, making the audience genuinely concerned, before puncturing that tension with a perfectly timed gag.
    • Contrast: A serious, menacing monologue from a villain, immediately followed by the revelation that they’re wearing bunny slippers. A crucial clue found written on a napkin from a questionable fast-food joint.
    • Anchoring Characters: Often, one or two characters serve as the audience’s anchor, reacting to the madness around them with relatable bewilderment or exasperated cynicism, which amplifies the humour.

Creating a narrative that blends darkness and paranoia with dense conspiracies, tongue-in-cheek humour, and a zany plot isn’t just writing; it’s an art form. It’s about acknowledging the very real anxieties that fuel conspiracy theories, then bravely, playfully, and subversively laughing in their face. It’s about building a world that feels both terrifyingly familiar and delightfully insane. And when it works, it’s an unforgettable journey into the heart of madness, where you’re never quite sure whether to gasp in fear or double over with laughter.

What are your favorite examples of stories that nail this unique blend? Let us know in the comments below!

Searching for locations: The Pagoda Forest, near Zhengzhou City, Henan Province, China

The pagoda forest

After another exhausting walk, by now the heat was beginning to take its toll on everyone, we arrived at the pagoda forest.

A little history first:

The pagoda forest is located west of the Shaolin Temple and the foot of a hill.  As the largest pagoda forest in China, it covers approximately 20,000 square meters and has about 230 pagodas build from the Tang Dynasty (618-907) to the Qing Dynasty (1644-1911).

Each pagoda is the tomb of an eminent monk from the Shaolin Temple.  Graceful and exquisite, they belong to different eras and constructed in different styles.  The first pagoda was thought to be built in 791.

It is now a world heritage site.

No, it’s not a forest with trees it’s a collection of over 200 pagodas, each a tribute to a head monk at the temple and it goes back a long time.  The tribute can have one, three, five, or a maximum of seven layers.  The ashes of the individual are buried under the base of the pagoda.

The size, height, and story of the pagoda indicate its accomplishments, prestige, merits, and virtues. Each pagoda was carved with the exact date of construction and brief inscriptions and has its own style with various shapes such as a polygonal, cylindrical, vase, conical and monolithic.

This is one of the more recently constructed pagodas

There are pagodas for eminent foreign monks also in the forest.

From there we get a ride back on the back of a large electric wagon

to the front entrance courtyard where drinks and ice creams can be bought, and a visit to the all-important happy place.

Then it’s back to the hotel.

What I learned about writing – Life in the beginning will not be glamorous

I’m currently sitting in my car, waiting to pick the grandchildren up from school, wondering where that dream of the glamorous life of an author went.

Can it be said that any author leads a glamorous life, except for maybe J K Rowling, James Patterson, and a handful of others?

That dream is, of course, only a dream.  I did not start this writing caper to become rich and famous or live a glamorous life.  I started it, and it continues in the same vein, that I have a lot of stories in my head that I want to get on paper.

If anyone else wants to read them, then that’s a bonus.  If I happen to make enough money, rather than live high on the hog, an expression my father often used to describe the rich, I would happily invest in programs that get young people reading more.

It also strikes me that it would be difficult to write a literary novel in the vein of Jane Austen or the Brontë sisters, to name a few, because modern-day life has no real meaning like it did then.

Instant news, instant communications, and the rest of the country, as well as the world, are close; we can go anywhere and communicate instantly.  In the days of classic literature, the protagonist’s exchange of letters and the arduous travelling to another part of the same country would be enough to generate a chapter, or the visit itself could generate several.

But those tales of life were always about people of means, not the ordinary people.  Stories that have the minutiae of daily life do not appeal.  No one wants to read about their lives; they want to be transported to another world where there is no such inanity as cooking, cleaning, washing, and picking up children.

I’m using this time to write another episode or chapter, or, in this case, a blog post.

As any parent will tell you, it is the calm before the storm.