NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 13

Now, over the cat and his wake-up tactics, food issues, and then walking off with a snooty expression, it might not be, but I’m going with that, it’s time to get to work.

But before that, I’m going to take the time to go over the plan, and taking into account the few sidebars that I made a few notes on to come back to, I realise there was a little loss of continuity.

Unfortunately, I’m going to have to rechart the plan in Excel, so later, when the same thing happens, I can quickly move the ’tiles’ around, and this takes a few hours.

Chester drops by to give me a surly look and wanders off.

Now having sorted the ’tiles’ into order, and added side notes, I’m ready to start again.

Of course, then there’s a problem. I’m writing away, and instead of sticking to the plan, I’m going off on a tangent. That’s the way the story is leading me, pantser style, but it’s only one possibility, so I put that writing aside and go back to the plan.

Done.

Not happy, but it’s written.

A to Z – April – 2026 – K

K is for Katerina

…

Sunday lunch could be the best of times or the worst of times. Any family gathering at my parents’ house was a trial, one that eventually drove me away.

I had stopped turning up at the family residence for the weekly gatherings simply because the ritual cross-examination of why I was not like my brothers and sisters, married with three point two children, got too exhausting.

It meant that I rarely, if ever, got to see my nieces and nephews or my brothers, sisters, brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, and well-meaning but over-the-top parents.

Moving to the other side of the country had a lot to do with it. The rest of my family had stayed put, making their lives in the one place they all professed they could never leave.

Only one other sibling had attempted an escape, my younger sister Eileen, but two months after she left, she came home. I knew something bad had happened, but she never said anything and never left again, except for the odd trip to the state capital for work.

But like all good things that came to an end, it was approaching that time when I would have to go back, if only once, because it was time.

…

I might have returned home earlier had it not been for an entirely unforeseen event.

I never had any intention of looking for, or becoming involved with, any other person, not to the extent that it would require explanation of my rather odd, to me anyway, circumstances.

Yes, I harboured the same hopes and dreams of meeting ‘the one’ as everyone else had, but the idea of subjecting them to the rigours of the family third degree was the single limiting factor. I could not say I was an orphan, but then I didn’t think it would be a selling point that I was the second youngest of fourteen children, with twelve of the thirteen others married, with a collective thirty-six nephews and nieces.

What was probably the worst aspect, this group turned up every Sunday for lunch, all sixty-four of them, unless a major calamity prevented their attendance. As you can see, with odds of sixty-four to one, the Spanish Inquisition would have been a kindergarten outing by comparison.

But to say I missed them may have been the case, but that they missed me more was becoming very hard to ignore or put off.

Perhaps they had missed making my life hell, because over the past three years, there had been many phone calls and messages and one visit by my eldest brother, the self-elected spokesman, he said, the peacemaker, who had come to take me home.

It was the last time we spoke. Civilly, anyway.

That was a year ago.

Things had changed during that year, though I was not sure whether for the better. I had met someone, yes, a woman named Catherine, Katerina if I wanted to call her by her Russian name, which I didn’t, one who was perhaps as skittish as I was at the whole dating and sharing your life thing.

Our first meeting was fascinating because her Russian accent was intoxicating, and I told her at the end of the night that she could read me War and Peace, and I would listen to it all night. I think that I realised she used her Russian heritage to put off potential suitors. I told her it wouldn’t work with me.

We both started out playing the orphan card, and as the dates piled up and the little pieces of our sad lives leaked out, it became apparent we both had suffered the small-town, large family, endless expectations things. She had been expected to marry her high school sweetheart until she found out he was secretly cheating on her.

When she told her parents, and they confronted him, he denied it and made her look like she was just spiteful because she didn’t want to marry him. The other girl could have him, and she left on the next bus out. It was no surprise to learn the other girl hadn’t married him, nor had any other.

From there, with cards on the table, we just clicked.

But like all good things, it, too, should have ended because I was one of those people who never finished what they started.

…

A Saturday morning, not generally a workday and the day we set aside for everything that couldn’t get done on a weekday, came after an extended evening in the pub.

We rarely stayed beyond a drink or two, but others we knew, just back from a long holiday, dropped in on the off chance we would be there, and it turned into dinner and more drinks.

It never affected Katerina. I was guessing it was something to do with her Russian heritage and vodka, and the explanation I missed when I had to go to the bathroom. I was not so lucky.

She was up and about, and I heard the buzzer, usually someone trying to get in after they forgot to take their key, and I thought no more about it.

Five minutes passed, and then Katerina was standing in the doorway, her half-hostile, annoyed expression glaring at me. It was one of those expressions you could feel.

“Some silly girl at the door says she is your sister.”

“I don’t have a sister.”

“I say this, and she says, ‘Go tell that annoying bastard Eileen is here’. So, annoying bastard, who is this Eileen?”

“One of the thirteen other siblings I try very hard not to admit I have. They’re like debt collectors. You can never really escape them.”

I climbed out of bed and went out. She stayed back at the door but was still visible from the front.

I opened the door, and there was Eileen, my youngest sister, the last born and the most spoiled. Given the age differences between my other siblings and me, she was the only one I could relate to.

“What the hell, Robert?”

“What the hell, yourself? Didn’t I make it clear to Prince Walter that I had disappeared through a portal to another dimension?”

It was an attempt at a joke that he couldn’t and wouldn’t understand. He had no sense of humour at all.

“That dumb shit doesn’t work on me. Are you going to leave me standing in the passage?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“Oh, for fucks sake, Robert,” then brushed past inside.

Katerina was watching with a bemused expression. Perhaps this was her family, too.

I could see Eileen giving her the traditional family female death stare. “Who is she?”

“She is standing right here, and I can hear and see you. A warning word, my other job is a bouncer at a nightclub, and you may, depending on what you say next, find out how I treat recalcitrant customers.”

That notion of not wanting to meet her in a dark alley was right. Katarina was a gym freak.

It was amusing to see Eileen think before she spoke next.

Then, with a glance over my shoulder at Katarina, she said, “As I said at the door, I’m his sister, Eileen. I’m surprised he didn’t mention me.”

Katerina looked her up and down. “He mentioned all of you, but I think his description may have been a little harsh. You only seem a little bit bitch from hell. I am Katarina. Bigger bitch from Siberia.”

I smiled. She could be a fascinating companion, more so after a bottle of vodka, and especially when she related tales of being in the Russian army. I could never tell if they were true and never dared to ask.

Eileen didn’t know what to do or say at that point. She was a hugger, and for the first time, I saw her hesitate.

Instead, she said, “Wow. The others are going to shit their pants when they meet Katarina.”

“And you know that’s never going to happen. That unappreciative, condescending collection of hypocrites doesn’t deserve anything from me and nothing from Katerina.”

She switched her death stare back to me.

“Dad’s dying. Earlier in the week, the final diagnosis gave him four to six months, if he’s lucky. We don’t believe he’s lucky. He must go to the hospital next week, and I honestly believe he won’t be coming out, Robert. We gave him a wish, the one thing he wanted most of all, no matter what it was, and we would grant it. He wants to see you one more time before he dies.”

That was saying something. When I left, he told me I could die in purgatory, after hell froze over, before he wanted to see me again.

“You were there when I left? He was the one who drove me away. Along with everyone else, including mother, who, I might add, spent every last breath making you the spoilt brat you are.”

“You need to get over it and yourself. I was not spoiled. When I left, I made a fool of myself and was raped. It was the worst experience of my life, and my mother nearly fought a losing battle when I tried to kill myself. I thought I knew everything, but I knew nothing. Perhaps I should have told you, and you wouldn’t have left.”

Well, if nothing else, it was typical of how my family handled trouble. My brother could have explained everything when he came, but he chose not to. He was the same man as my father, uncompromising and a hard task master. I was sure that if my father, and in turn my eldest brother, could whip us for our sins, he would have.

I shook my head and looked at Katerina. She went up to Eileen and hugged her.

“It is a terrible thing, what men can do to women. We go find this lowlife and teach lesson, no?”

“Too late. God has a way of sorting out these problems. He was killed in a crash, chased by the cops while kidnapping an underage girl he had got pregnant. Leopards and spots, my father says.”

That would be him. A saying for everything, not a solution.

“There is no God, just karma. But the story doesn’t change people, as you say, like leopards and spots. Nor does death. They are still the same people as in life. You need more compelling reasons. I have the same family, which is why I left Russia.”

Eileen glared at me. “Who is this woman?”

Katerina put her angry face on again. “When you live my life, you can dare ask. You have delivered a message.” She went to the door and opened it. “We will discuss; let you know.”

“Robert?”

“Where are you staying?”

“The hotel up the road, not far from here.”

“Good. I’ll call you. I assume your cell number hasn’t changed?”

Her annoyance changed to surprise. I was not sure what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the open door.

“Is that it?”

“Like the rest, your expectation is that I would just fall into line. You could have called me.”

“You wouldn’t answer.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. But I will call you.”

“We can talk now.”

“No. You can’t just turn up on my doorstep and expect me to drop everything. I now have a life, one I like, free of all that obligation and expectation. I don’t have to meet anyone’s standards other than my own and of Katarina, as it should be.”

“He’ll be very disappointed if you don’t. Everyone will be.”

“And there’s the emotional blackmail. Go now before I simply refuse, and you will have wasted your time and money.”

She looked at me with anger and just a little of what my brother had in his eyes the last time I saw him. Hatred.

“I don’t understand why you hate us so much.”

“You should be asking them, not me.”

A final shake of the head, and she left. It was not what I wanted, but it was the right thing to do. Something I had learned while away from home was that decisions were not mine alone when there were others involved, something my father never practised. It had always been his way or no way.

I leaned against the door and sighed.

“You think her story is true? She is quite manipulative, as you said.”

“Maybe. My father taught them well, her especially.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Go back to bed and pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Shopping or bed, I know which I prefer, but it doesn’t resolve the problem.”

“Then I make a call to a friend who will know what’s really going on. Then bed, then we talk, then we take her to dinner and send her back with the good or bad news. It’s up to you, too.”

“It is, after all, your family.”

“And yours for better or worse, if or when we decide to make this permanent.”

“Does that mean we have to go to Siberia to see mine? It is not something I would ask of you.”

“I’d love to see Siberia.”

She laughed. “You are funny, boy Robert. No one loves to go to Siberia, especially Siberians. Make the call, and then I will make you forget Siberia exists.”

…

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 86

Day 86 – Writing fast or slow

…

Speed vs. Patience in Novel Writing: Why “Fast” Doesn’t Have to Mean “Shallow”

Writing fast can be a strength when it’s backed by a solid plan, disciplined habits, and a system for keeping track of details.
Rushing without preparation usually ends in thin characters, plot holes, and endless rewrites.
Earl Stanley Gardner’s 3 × 5‑card system shows how a writer can sprint the first draft while still maintaining “detail‑level” control.

In the world of fiction, the “fast‑track” versus “slow‑burn” debate is as old as the first typewriter. Some of the most beloved classics were laboured over for years; others erupted onto the scene in a burst of creative momentum. So, is finishing a novel quickly a badge of honour or a recipe for mediocrity? Let’s unpack the myth, look at the data, and see what a master of the craft—Earl Stanley Gardner—can teach us about marrying speed with substance.

1. The Myth of the “Quick‑Write” Novel

Common Pro‑Speed Belief	Reality Check
“If I write fast, the story stays fresh.”	Freshness can be preserved if you capture the core idea quickly, but the nuance (voice, subtext, world‑building) still requires time.
“The first draft should be a sprint.”	A sprint works when you have a map; otherwise you risk getting lost and having to backtrack.
“Fast writers are more productive, period.”	Productivity = output ÷ time. A fast first draft can be productive, but quality revisions are the true productivity multiplier.

The romantic image of the author hunched over a typewriter, words spilling out like a torrent, is compelling. Yet the industry’s “publish‑or‑perish” pressure has turned speed into a badge of professionalism—sometimes at the cost of depth.

Why the Fear of “Too‑Slow” Persists

Market pressure – Publishers want marketable manuscripts, and a lengthy gestation can look risky.
Personal doubt – Writers equate time spent with laziness, ignoring the fact that thoughtful revision is work, not procrastination.
Social media – Flash‑fiction challenges and “write‑a‑novel‑in‑30‑days” hashtags glorify speed.

But speed alone is not a metric of quality. It’s the process behind that speed that makes the difference.

2. The Counter‑Argument: “Take Your Time, Get the Detail Right”

Many celebrated authors have taken years—sometimes decades—to perfect a single novel:

Author	Time to First Draft	Notable Detail
Marcel Proust	13 years ( À la recherche du temps perdu )	Intricate memory structures, sensory detail
J.K. Rowling	5 years ( Harry Potter series)	World‑building, magical system rules
Haruki Murakami	4–6 years per novel	Atmosphere, recurring motifs

These writers demonstrate that deliberate, layered craftsmanship often requires a slower pace. Yet notice the pattern: they didn’t just sit and think; they produced drafts, rewrote, and refined—a disciplined cadence, not a languid drift.

What “Taking Your Time” Looks Like in Practice

Daily word‑count goals (e.g., 500–1,000 words) that respect a realistic schedule.
Research blocks are scheduled before or during the draft, not after.
Iterative outline revisions as the story evolves.
Scheduled “detail‑days” where you focus solely on specific aspects: dialogue, setting, character back‑story.

In other words, time is a resource—you can spend it wisely or waste it. The key is structure.

3. Planning: The Bridge Between Speed and Substance

Speed without a plan is like driving a sports car without a road map: you’ll get somewhere, but likely not where you intended. A robust plan lets you:

Locate narrative landmarks (major plot twists, climax, resolution).
Flag high‑stakes details (character motivations, world rules) for later refinement.
Allocate “sprint” vs. “sprint‑pause” phases, ensuring stamina.

Types of Planning Systems

System	Core Idea	Ideal For
Full‑blown outline (e.g., Snowflake Method)	Start with a single sentence, expand to chapters.	Writers who love a macro view before micro work.
Scene‑by‑scene index cards	Cards for each scene, shuffled as needed.	Visual thinkers, flexible plots.
Mind‑map	Non‑linear, branching ideas.	Complex worlds, multiple POVs.
3 × 5‑card system (Earl Stanley Gardner)	Details captured on index cards, organized into “files.”	Plot‑driven writers, mystery/suspense authors.

All of these share a common thread: externalise the story. When you move ideas off the page (or screen) you free mental bandwidth for creative flow.

4. Case Study: Earl Stanley Gardner and the 3 × 5‑Card System

Who Was Earl Stanley Gardner?

Creator of the Perry Mason series (1933–1973) – over 80 novels, many adapted for TV.
Prodigious output: Averaged a novel every two months, some weeks.
Master of plot precision: Known for intricate puzzles that never left loose ends.

The Card System Explained

Step	What You Do	Why It Helps
1. Capture every idea	Write each plot point, character trait, clue, or setting on a 3 × 5 index card.	Prevents “aha!” moments from evaporating.
2. Categorize into “files.”	Group cards into logical bins: Characters, Motives, Clues, Red Herrings, Scenes.	Gives you a searchable “database” of story elements.
3. Sequence the narrative	Lay out the scene cards in order, shuffle, test alternate orders.	Enables rapid restructuring without rewriting.
4. Draft from the cards	Use the sequence as a road map for a fast, first‑draft sprint.	Keeps you moving forward; you already have the details.
5. Review & tighten	After the draft, return to the cards to spot missing connections or over‑complicated twists.	Guarantees that the detail‑level (the “fair‑play” of mystery) stays intact.

Why It Works

External Memory: The cards become a “second brain,” freeing the author to write rather than juggle facts.
Modular Flexibility: If a scene feels flat, you pull a different card, replace it, and keep writing.
Speed with Safety Net: Gardener could sprint the first draft because the “detail police” lived on his card table.

Takeaways for Any Writer

Adopt a capture tool – physical index cards, a digital Kanban board (Trello, Notion), or even a simple spreadsheet.
Commit to a “card‑first” mindset – no idea is too small to be carded.
Use the cards as a reversible outline – rearrange, add, delete, then write.

5. Practical Blueprint: Write a Novel Fast Without Losing Depth

Below is a step‑by‑step workflow that blends Gardner’s method with modern tools.

Phase 1 – Ideation (1–2 weeks)

Action	Tool	Output
Brain‑dump plot seeds	Scrivener, Google Docs, or a stack of 3 × 5 cards	20–30 raw ideas
Turn each seed into a card	Physical cards or Trello card	“Idea Cards”
Assign tags (Character, Setting, Twist)	Card color/label	Organized library

Phase 2 – Structure (2–3 weeks)

Action	Tool	Output
Draft a one‑sentence logline	Notepad	Core hook
Expand to a paragraph synopsis	Word processor	Story arc
Break synopsis into scene cards	Trello board columns (Act I, II, III)	30–50 scene cards
Verify each scene supports one major plot goal and one character arc beat	Checklist	Cohesive structure

Phase 3 – Sprint Draft (4–6 weeks)

Daily Routine	Goal
Morning (30 min): Review the next 2‑3 scene cards, add any missing details.	Keep the mental map fresh.
Writing block (2 hr): Write the scenes in order without editing.	Capture raw narrative.
Afternoon (15 min): Update card status (Done, Needs Revision).	Track progress.
Evening (10 min): Quick “detail‑audit” – do any clues or character motives feel incomplete? Add new cards if needed.	Prevent blind spots.

Result: A first draft in 30–45 days, with most major plot holes already flagged.

Phase 4 – Revision (4–8 weeks)

Revision Pass	Focus
Pass 1 – Macro: Compare draft to scene cards, ensure every card is represented appropriately.	Structural fidelity.
Pass 2 – Character Depth: Cross‑check each character’s “Motivation Card” against their actions.	Emotional authenticity.
Pass 3 – Detail Polish: Use “Setting” and “Clue” cards to enrich prose, add sensory layer.	Texture and atmosphere.
Pass 4 – Line‑Edit: Grammar, style, pacing.	Clean copy.

The beauty of this system is that the heavy lifting (detail tracking) is already done; revisions become a matter of refinement, not reconstruction.

6. When Speed Can Backfire (And How to Avoid It)

Pitfall	Symptoms	Fix
“Speed‑first, plan‑later”	Frequently hitting dead‑ends, large plot holes, endless rewrites.	Insert at least a 10‑page outline before the first draft.
“All‑out sprint, no rest”	Burnout, loss of enthusiasm, sloppy prose.	Build in micro‑breaks (e.g., 10‑minute walk after each 2‑hour block).
“Details after the fact”	Inconsistencies in character back‑story, world logic errors.	Use cards or a spreadsheet to log every new fact as you write.
“Relying on memory”	Forgetting early clues, contradictory timelines.	Keep a master timeline (Google Sheet, Excel) updated daily.

7. Bottom Line: Speed Is a Tool, Not a Philosophy

If you have a plan, a fast first draft can be a productive sprint that leaves you plenty of time for deep revision.
If you lack a plan, speed often leads to a quick mess that takes longer to clean up than a slower, more deliberate approach.
Gardner’s 3 × 5‑card system proves that you can have both: a rapid output engine powered by meticulous, externalised detail tracking.

In short: Write fast when you’ve wired the details into a system you trust. Write slowly when you’re still figuring out what the story even is. The sweet spot lies somewhere in the middle—structured speed backed by disciplined organisation.

8. Quick‑Start Checklist (Print‑Friendly)

Capture every narrative idea on a card (physical or digital).
Tag each card (Character, Plot, Setting, Clue).
Arrange cards into a three‑act scene sequence.
Set a daily word‑count goal (1,000–2,000 words).
Write the first draft without editing – use the cards as a roadmap.
Mark cards that need extra detail during the draft.
Revise using the four‑pass method (macro → character → detail → line).

Print this list, stick it on your desk, and let it guide you from “I have a story” to “I have a polished novel—fast.”

Searching for locations: From the Presidential Suite to almost walking the plank, Auckland, New Zealand

This is something you don’t see every day of the week, or once in a lifetime, perhaps.

We arrived at the Hilton Auckland hotel somewhere between one and two in the morning after arriving from Australia by plane around midnight.

Sometimes there is a benefit in arriving late, and, of course, being a very high tier HHonors guest, where the room you book is upgraded.

This stay we got one hell of a surprise.

We got to spend the night in the Presidential Suite.

The lounge and extra bathroom.

Looking towards the private bathroom.

A bathroom fit for a King and a Queen

And the royal bed

There was a note to say that we should keep the blinds closed for privacy and that a ship would be arriving in the port, but I did not expect it to be literally fifty feet from our balcony.

“Knowledge can be dangerous…” – A short story

It was, perhaps, the saddest week of my life.

It started with a phone call, and then a visit by two police officers. It was about my parents, but the news could not be imparted over the phone, only in person. That statement alone told me it was very bad news, so I assumed the worst.

The two police officers, standing at the front door, with grim expressions on their faces, completed the picture. The news, my parents were dead, killed in a freak car accident.

At first, it didn’t sink in. They were on their way back from another of their extensive holidays, one of many since my father had retired. I’d seen them probably six months out of the last five years, and the only reason they were returning this time was that my mother needed an operation.

They hadn’t told me why, not that they ever told me very much any time since the day I’d been born, but that was who they were. I thought them eccentric, being older when I’d come along, and others thought them, well, eccentric.

And being an only child, they packed me off to boarding school, then university, and then found me a job in London, and set me up so that I would only see them weekends if they were home.

I had once wondered if they ever cared about me, keeping me at arm’s length, but my mother some time ago had taken me aside and explained why. It was my father’s family tradition. The only part I’d missed was a nanny.

It most likely explained why I didn’t feel their passing as much as I should.

A week later, after a strange funeral where a great many people I’d never met before, and oddly who knew about me, I found myself sitting in the sunroom, a glass of scotch in one hand, and an envelope with my name on it, in the other.

The solicitor, a man I’d never met before, had given it to me at the funeral. We had, as far as I knew an elderly fellow, one of my father’s old school friends, as the family solicitor, but he hadn’t shown at the funeral and wasn’t at home when I called in on my way home.

It was all very odd.

I refilled the glass and took another look at the envelope. It was not new, in fact, it had the yellow tinge of age, with discolouration where the flap was. The writing was almost a scrawl, but identifiable as my father’s handwriting, perhaps an early version as it was now definitely an illegible scrawl.

I’d compared it with the note he’d left me before they had embarked on their last adventure, everything I had to do while caretaking their house. The last paragraph was the most interesting, instructing me to be present when the cleaning lady came, he’d all but accused her of stealing the candlesticks.

To be honest, I hadn’t realized there were candlesticks to steal, but there they were, on the mantlepiece over the fire in the dining room. The whole house was almost like being in an adventure park, with stairs going up to an array of rooms, mostly no longer used, and a staircase to the attic, and then another going down to the cellar. The attic was locked and had been for as long as I could remember, and the cellar was dank and draughty.

Much like the whole house, but not surprisingly, it was over 200 years old.

And perhaps it was now mine. The solicitor, a man by the name of Sir Percival Algernon Bridgewater, had intimated that it might be the last will and testament and had asked me to tell him if it was. I was surprised that Sir Percival didn’t have the document in question.

And equally. so that the man I knew as his solicitor, Lawerence Wellingham, didn’t have a copy of my father’s last will and testament either.

I finished the drink, picked up the envelope, and opened it.

It contained two sheets of paper, the will, and a letter. A very short letter.

“If you are reading this I have died before my time. You will need to find Albert Stritching, and ask him to help you find the murderer.”

Even the tenor of that letter didn’t faze me as it should have, because at this point nothing would surprise me. In fact, as I unfolded the document that proclaimed it was the will, I was ready for it to say that the whole of his estate and belongings were to be left to some charity, and I would get an annual stipend of a thousand pounds.

In fact, it didn’t. The whole of his estate was left to my mother should she outlive him, or in the event of her prior decease, to me.

I had to put all of those surprises on hold to answer a knock on the door.

Lawerence Wellingham.

I stood to one side, let him pass, closed the door, and followed him into the front room, the one my mother called the ‘drawing room’ though I never knew why.

He sat in one of the large, comfortable lounge chairs. I sat in the other.

I showed him the will. I kept the other back, not knowing what to make of it.

“No surprise there,” Wellingham said.

“Did you have any idea what my father used to do, beyond being, as he put it, a freelance diplomat?”

I thought it a rather odd description but it was better than one he once proffered, ‘I do odd jobs for the government’.

“I didn’t ask. Knowledge can be dangerous, particularly when associated with your father. Most of us prefer not to know, but one thing I can tell you. If anyone tries to tell you what happened to your parents was not an accident, ignore them. Go live your life, and keep those memories you have of them in the past, and don’t look back. They were good people, Ken, remember them as such.”

We reminisced for the next hour, making a dent in the scotch, one of my father’s favourite, and he left.

Alone again, the thoughts went back to the second note from my father. That’s when the house phone rang.

Before I could answer it, a voice said, “My name is Stritching. Your father might have mentioned me? We need to talk.”

—-

‘The Devil You Don’t’ – A beta reader’s view

It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you?

John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.

So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?

That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.

What should have been solace after disappointment turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.

He suddenly realises his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.

The story paints the characters, cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times, taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice, where, in those back streets, I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.

All in all, a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.

…

Available on Amazon here: https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

A to Z – April – 2026 – K

K is for Katerina

…

Sunday lunch could be the best of times or the worst of times. Any family gathering at my parents’ house was a trial, one that eventually drove me away.

It meant that I rarely, if ever, got to see my nieces and nephews or my brothers, sisters, brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, and well-meaning but over-the-top parents.

Moving to the other side of the country had a lot to do with it. The rest of my family had stayed put, making their lives in the one place they all professed they could never leave.

But like all good things that came to an end, it was approaching that time when I would have to go back, if only once, because it was time.

…

I might have returned home earlier had it not been for an entirely unforeseen event.

I never had any intention of looking for, or becoming involved with, any other person, not to the extent that it would require explanation of my rather odd, to me anyway, circumstances.

But to say I missed them may have been the case, but that they missed me more was becoming very hard to ignore or put off.

It was the last time we spoke. Civilly, anyway.

That was a year ago.

From there, with cards on the table, we just clicked.

But like all good things, it, too, should have ended because I was one of those people who never finished what they started.

…

A Saturday morning, not generally a workday and the day we set aside for everything that couldn’t get done on a weekday, came after an extended evening in the pub.

We rarely stayed beyond a drink or two, but others we knew, just back from a long holiday, dropped in on the off chance we would be there, and it turned into dinner and more drinks.

It never affected Katerina. I was guessing it was something to do with her Russian heritage and vodka, and the explanation I missed when I had to go to the bathroom. I was not so lucky.

She was up and about, and I heard the buzzer, usually someone trying to get in after they forgot to take their key, and I thought no more about it.

Five minutes passed, and then Katerina was standing in the doorway, her half-hostile, annoyed expression glaring at me. It was one of those expressions you could feel.

“Some silly girl at the door says she is your sister.”

“I don’t have a sister.”

“I say this, and she says, ‘Go tell that annoying bastard Eileen is here’. So, annoying bastard, who is this Eileen?”

“One of the thirteen other siblings I try very hard not to admit I have. They’re like debt collectors. You can never really escape them.”

I climbed out of bed and went out. She stayed back at the door but was still visible from the front.

I opened the door, and there was Eileen, my youngest sister, the last born and the most spoiled. Given the age differences between my other siblings and me, she was the only one I could relate to.

“What the hell, Robert?”

“What the hell, yourself? Didn’t I make it clear to Prince Walter that I had disappeared through a portal to another dimension?”

It was an attempt at a joke that he couldn’t and wouldn’t understand. He had no sense of humour at all.

“That dumb shit doesn’t work on me. Are you going to leave me standing in the passage?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“Oh, for fucks sake, Robert,” then brushed past inside.

Katerina was watching with a bemused expression. Perhaps this was her family, too.

I could see Eileen giving her the traditional family female death stare. “Who is she?”

That notion of not wanting to meet her in a dark alley was right. Katarina was a gym freak.

It was amusing to see Eileen think before she spoke next.

Then, with a glance over my shoulder at Katarina, she said, “As I said at the door, I’m his sister, Eileen. I’m surprised he didn’t mention me.”

Eileen didn’t know what to do or say at that point. She was a hugger, and for the first time, I saw her hesitate.

Instead, she said, “Wow. The others are going to shit their pants when they meet Katarina.”

“And you know that’s never going to happen. That unappreciative, condescending collection of hypocrites doesn’t deserve anything from me and nothing from Katerina.”

She switched her death stare back to me.

That was saying something. When I left, he told me I could die in purgatory, after hell froze over, before he wanted to see me again.

“You were there when I left? He was the one who drove me away. Along with everyone else, including mother, who, I might add, spent every last breath making you the spoilt brat you are.”

I shook my head and looked at Katerina. She went up to Eileen and hugged her.

“It is a terrible thing, what men can do to women. We go find this lowlife and teach lesson, no?”

“Too late. God has a way of sorting out these problems. He was killed in a crash, chased by the cops while kidnapping an underage girl he had got pregnant. Leopards and spots, my father says.”

That would be him. A saying for everything, not a solution.

Eileen glared at me. “Who is this woman?”

Katerina put her angry face on again. “When you live my life, you can dare ask. You have delivered a message.” She went to the door and opened it. “We will discuss; let you know.”

“Robert?”

“Where are you staying?”

“The hotel up the road, not far from here.”

“Good. I’ll call you. I assume your cell number hasn’t changed?”

Her annoyance changed to surprise. I was not sure what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the open door.

“Is that it?”

“Like the rest, your expectation is that I would just fall into line. You could have called me.”

“You wouldn’t answer.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. But I will call you.”

“We can talk now.”

“He’ll be very disappointed if you don’t. Everyone will be.”

“And there’s the emotional blackmail. Go now before I simply refuse, and you will have wasted your time and money.”

She looked at me with anger and just a little of what my brother had in his eyes the last time I saw him. Hatred.

“I don’t understand why you hate us so much.”

“You should be asking them, not me.”

I leaned against the door and sighed.

“You think her story is true? She is quite manipulative, as you said.”

“Maybe. My father taught them well, her especially.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Go back to bed and pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Shopping or bed, I know which I prefer, but it doesn’t resolve the problem.”

“Then I make a call to a friend who will know what’s really going on. Then bed, then we talk, then we take her to dinner and send her back with the good or bad news. It’s up to you, too.”

“It is, after all, your family.”

“And yours for better or worse, if or when we decide to make this permanent.”

“Does that mean we have to go to Siberia to see mine? It is not something I would ask of you.”

“I’d love to see Siberia.”

She laughed. “You are funny, boy Robert. No one loves to go to Siberia, especially Siberians. Make the call, and then I will make you forget Siberia exists.”

…

An excerpt from “Betrayal” – a work in progress

It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t. It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…

She sighed, came away from the window and looked around the room. It was quite large and expensively furnished. It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.

Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917. At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.

There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.

She was here to meet with Vladimir.

She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.

All he knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, whose life both at work and at home was boring. Not that she had blurted that out the first time they met, or even the second.

That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.

It was a celebration honouring one of the Embassy officials’ service in Moscow, soon to be returning home after 10 years. She had been there one and still hadn’t met all the staff.

They had talked; Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and, of course, what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.

It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords if this were a fencing match.

They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity. She knew the signs of a man interested in her, and Vladimir was.

The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined. After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.

Then, it went quiet for a month. There was a party at the American embassy, and along with several other staff members, she was invited. She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.

A pleasant afternoon ensued.

And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.

By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends. She had broached the subject of being involved in a platonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy. Normally, for a member of her rank, it would not be allowed, but in this instance, it was.

She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something useful. In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open and file a report each time she met him.

After that discussion, she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit. She also formed the impression that he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.

It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine. She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.

A Russian friend. That’s what she would call him.

And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue. It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.

Even so, she had made him promise that he would remain on his best behaviour. It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.

So, it began.

It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one she had expected to be reprimanded.

She wasn’t.

It wasn’t until six weeks had passed that he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country. It would involve staying in a hotel, as always, in separate rooms. When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution: keep her wits about her.

Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report. After all, her reports on the places, the people, and the conversations she overheard were no doubt entertaining reading for some.

But on this visit, the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report. She had realised at some point before the weekend away that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.

It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen. Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, just happened.

And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.

She took off her coat and placed it carefully on the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room. She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.

Then, after a minute or two, she went to the minibar and took out the bottle of champagne left there for them, a treat Vladimir arranged for each encounter.

There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit. She picked up the apple and thought about how Eve must have felt in the Garden of Eden, and the temptation.

Later perhaps, after…

She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.

A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival. It was, if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality. A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.

The doorbell rang, right on the appointed time.

She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.

A smile on her face, she opened the door.

It was not Vladimir. It was her worst nightmare.

…

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 86

Day 86 – Writing fast or slow

…

Speed vs. Patience in Novel Writing: Why “Fast” Doesn’t Have to Mean “Shallow”

Writing fast can be a strength when it’s backed by a solid plan, disciplined habits, and a system for keeping track of details.
Rushing without preparation usually ends in thin characters, plot holes, and endless rewrites.
Earl Stanley Gardner’s 3 × 5‑card system shows how a writer can sprint the first draft while still maintaining “detail‑level” control.

1. The Myth of the “Quick‑Write” Novel

Common Pro‑Speed Belief	Reality Check
“If I write fast, the story stays fresh.”	Freshness can be preserved if you capture the core idea quickly, but the nuance (voice, subtext, world‑building) still requires time.
“The first draft should be a sprint.”	A sprint works when you have a map; otherwise you risk getting lost and having to backtrack.
“Fast writers are more productive, period.”	Productivity = output ÷ time. A fast first draft can be productive, but quality revisions are the true productivity multiplier.

Why the Fear of “Too‑Slow” Persists

Market pressure – Publishers want marketable manuscripts, and a lengthy gestation can look risky.
Personal doubt – Writers equate time spent with laziness, ignoring the fact that thoughtful revision is work, not procrastination.
Social media – Flash‑fiction challenges and “write‑a‑novel‑in‑30‑days” hashtags glorify speed.

But speed alone is not a metric of quality. It’s the process behind that speed that makes the difference.

2. The Counter‑Argument: “Take Your Time, Get the Detail Right”

Many celebrated authors have taken years—sometimes decades—to perfect a single novel:

Author	Time to First Draft	Notable Detail
Marcel Proust	13 years ( À la recherche du temps perdu )	Intricate memory structures, sensory detail
J.K. Rowling	5 years ( Harry Potter series)	World‑building, magical system rules
Haruki Murakami	4–6 years per novel	Atmosphere, recurring motifs

What “Taking Your Time” Looks Like in Practice

Daily word‑count goals (e.g., 500–1,000 words) that respect a realistic schedule.
Research blocks are scheduled before or during the draft, not after.
Iterative outline revisions as the story evolves.
Scheduled “detail‑days” where you focus solely on specific aspects: dialogue, setting, character back‑story.

In other words, time is a resource—you can spend it wisely or waste it. The key is structure.

3. Planning: The Bridge Between Speed and Substance

Speed without a plan is like driving a sports car without a road map: you’ll get somewhere, but likely not where you intended. A robust plan lets you:

Locate narrative landmarks (major plot twists, climax, resolution).
Flag high‑stakes details (character motivations, world rules) for later refinement.
Allocate “sprint” vs. “sprint‑pause” phases, ensuring stamina.

Types of Planning Systems

System	Core Idea	Ideal For
Full‑blown outline (e.g., Snowflake Method)	Start with a single sentence, expand to chapters.	Writers who love a macro view before micro work.
Scene‑by‑scene index cards	Cards for each scene, shuffled as needed.	Visual thinkers, flexible plots.
Mind‑map	Non‑linear, branching ideas.	Complex worlds, multiple POVs.
3 × 5‑card system (Earl Stanley Gardner)	Details captured on index cards, organized into “files.”	Plot‑driven writers, mystery/suspense authors.

All of these share a common thread: externalise the story. When you move ideas off the page (or screen) you free mental bandwidth for creative flow.

4. Case Study: Earl Stanley Gardner and the 3 × 5‑Card System

Who Was Earl Stanley Gardner?

Creator of the Perry Mason series (1933–1973) – over 80 novels, many adapted for TV.
Prodigious output: Averaged a novel every two months, some weeks.
Master of plot precision: Known for intricate puzzles that never left loose ends.

The Card System Explained

Step	What You Do	Why It Helps
1. Capture every idea	Write each plot point, character trait, clue, or setting on a 3 × 5 index card.	Prevents “aha!” moments from evaporating.
2. Categorize into “files.”	Group cards into logical bins: Characters, Motives, Clues, Red Herrings, Scenes.	Gives you a searchable “database” of story elements.
3. Sequence the narrative	Lay out the scene cards in order, shuffle, test alternate orders.	Enables rapid restructuring without rewriting.
4. Draft from the cards	Use the sequence as a road map for a fast, first‑draft sprint.	Keeps you moving forward; you already have the details.
5. Review & tighten	After the draft, return to the cards to spot missing connections or over‑complicated twists.	Guarantees that the detail‑level (the “fair‑play” of mystery) stays intact.

Why It Works

External Memory: The cards become a “second brain,” freeing the author to write rather than juggle facts.
Modular Flexibility: If a scene feels flat, you pull a different card, replace it, and keep writing.
Speed with Safety Net: Gardener could sprint the first draft because the “detail police” lived on his card table.

Takeaways for Any Writer

Adopt a capture tool – physical index cards, a digital Kanban board (Trello, Notion), or even a simple spreadsheet.
Commit to a “card‑first” mindset – no idea is too small to be carded.
Use the cards as a reversible outline – rearrange, add, delete, then write.

5. Practical Blueprint: Write a Novel Fast Without Losing Depth

Below is a step‑by‑step workflow that blends Gardner’s method with modern tools.

Phase 1 – Ideation (1–2 weeks)

Action	Tool	Output
Brain‑dump plot seeds	Scrivener, Google Docs, or a stack of 3 × 5 cards	20–30 raw ideas
Turn each seed into a card	Physical cards or Trello card	“Idea Cards”
Assign tags (Character, Setting, Twist)	Card color/label	Organized library

Phase 2 – Structure (2–3 weeks)

Action	Tool	Output
Draft a one‑sentence logline	Notepad	Core hook
Expand to a paragraph synopsis	Word processor	Story arc
Break synopsis into scene cards	Trello board columns (Act I, II, III)	30–50 scene cards
Verify each scene supports one major plot goal and one character arc beat	Checklist	Cohesive structure

Phase 3 – Sprint Draft (4–6 weeks)

Daily Routine	Goal
Morning (30 min): Review the next 2‑3 scene cards, add any missing details.	Keep the mental map fresh.
Writing block (2 hr): Write the scenes in order without editing.	Capture raw narrative.
Afternoon (15 min): Update card status (Done, Needs Revision).	Track progress.
Evening (10 min): Quick “detail‑audit” – do any clues or character motives feel incomplete? Add new cards if needed.	Prevent blind spots.

Result: A first draft in 30–45 days, with most major plot holes already flagged.

Phase 4 – Revision (4–8 weeks)

Revision Pass	Focus
Pass 1 – Macro: Compare draft to scene cards, ensure every card is represented appropriately.	Structural fidelity.
Pass 2 – Character Depth: Cross‑check each character’s “Motivation Card” against their actions.	Emotional authenticity.
Pass 3 – Detail Polish: Use “Setting” and “Clue” cards to enrich prose, add sensory layer.	Texture and atmosphere.
Pass 4 – Line‑Edit: Grammar, style, pacing.	Clean copy.

The beauty of this system is that the heavy lifting (detail tracking) is already done; revisions become a matter of refinement, not reconstruction.

6. When Speed Can Backfire (And How to Avoid It)

Pitfall	Symptoms	Fix
“Speed‑first, plan‑later”	Frequently hitting dead‑ends, large plot holes, endless rewrites.	Insert at least a 10‑page outline before the first draft.
“All‑out sprint, no rest”	Burnout, loss of enthusiasm, sloppy prose.	Build in micro‑breaks (e.g., 10‑minute walk after each 2‑hour block).
“Details after the fact”	Inconsistencies in character back‑story, world logic errors.	Use cards or a spreadsheet to log every new fact as you write.
“Relying on memory”	Forgetting early clues, contradictory timelines.	Keep a master timeline (Google Sheet, Excel) updated daily.

7. Bottom Line: Speed Is a Tool, Not a Philosophy

If you have a plan, a fast first draft can be a productive sprint that leaves you plenty of time for deep revision.
If you lack a plan, speed often leads to a quick mess that takes longer to clean up than a slower, more deliberate approach.
Gardner’s 3 × 5‑card system proves that you can have both: a rapid output engine powered by meticulous, externalised detail tracking.

8. Quick‑Start Checklist (Print‑Friendly)

Capture every narrative idea on a card (physical or digital).
Tag each card (Character, Plot, Setting, Clue).
Arrange cards into a three‑act scene sequence.
Set a daily word‑count goal (1,000–2,000 words).
Write the first draft without editing – use the cards as a roadmap.
Mark cards that need extra detail during the draft.
Revise using the four‑pass method (macro → character → detail → line).

Print this list, stick it on your desk, and let it guide you from “I have a story” to “I have a polished novel—fast.”

“The Things we do for Love”, the story behind the story

This story has been ongoing since I was seventeen, and just to let you know, I’m 72 this year.

Yes, it’s taken a long time to get it done.

Why, you might ask.

Well, I never gave it much interest because I started writing it after a small incident when I was 17, and working as a book packer for a book distributor in Melbourne

At the end of my first year, at Christmas, the employer had a Christmas party, and that year, it was at a venue in St Kilda.

I wasn’t going to go because at that age, I was an ordinary boy who was very introverted and basically scared of his own shadow and terrified by girls.

Back then, I would cross the street to avoid them

Also, other members of the staff in the shipping department were rough and ready types who were not backwards in telling me what happened, and being naive, perhaps they knew I’d be either shocked or intrigued.

I was both adamant I wasn’t coming and then got roped in on a dare.

Damn!

So, back then, in the early 70s, people looked the other way when it came to drinking, and of course, Dutch courage always takes away the concerns, especially when normally you wouldn’t do half the stuff you wouldn’t in a million years

I made it to the end, not as drunk and stupid as I thought I might be, and St Kilda being a salacious place if you knew where to look, my new friends decided to give me a surprise.

It didn’t take long to realise these men were ‘men about town’ as they kept saying, and we went on an odyssey. Yes, those backstreet brothels where one could, I was told, have anything they could imagine.

Let me tell you, large quantities of alcohol and imagination were a very bad mix.

So, the odyssey in ‘The things we do’ was based on that, and then the encounter with Diana. Well, let’s just say I learned a great deal about girls that night.

Firstly, not all girls are nasty and spiteful, which seemed to be the case whenever I met one. There was a way to approach, greet, talk to, and behave.

It was also true that I could have had anything I wanted, but I decided what was in my imagination could stay there. She was amused that all I wanted was to talk, but it was my money, and I could spend it how I liked.

And like any 17-year-old naive fool, I fell in love with her and had all these foolish notions. Months later, I went back, but she had moved on, to where no one was saying or knew.

Needless to say, I was heartbroken and had to get over that first loss, which, like any 17-year-old, was like the end of the world.

But it was the best hour I’d ever spent in my life and would remain so until I met the woman I have been married to for the last 48 years.

As Henry, he was in part based on a rebel, the son of rich parents who despised them and their wealth, and he used to regale anyone who would listen about how they had messed up his life

If only I’d come from such a background!

And yes, I was only a run away from climbing up the stairs to get on board a ship, acting as a purser.

I worked for a shipping company and they gave their junior staff members an opportunity to spend a year at sea working as a purser on a cargo ship that sailed between Melbourne, Sydney and Hobart in Australia.

One of the other junior staff members’ turn came, and I would visit him on board when he would tell me stories about life on board, the officers, the crew, and other events. These stories, which sounded incredible to someone so impressionable, were a delight to hear.

Alas, by that time, I had tired of office work and moved on to be a tradesman at the place where my father worked.

It proved to be the right move, as that is where I met my wife. Diana had been right; love would find me when I least expected it.

…

One writer's experiences, and battles with words

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1. The Myth of the “Quick‑Write” Novel

Why the Fear of “Too‑Slow” Persists

2. The Counter‑Argument: “Take Your Time, Get the Detail Right”

What “Taking Your Time” Looks Like in Practice

3. Planning: The Bridge Between Speed and Substance

Types of Planning Systems

4. Case Study: Earl Stanley Gardner and the 3 × 5‑Card System

Who Was Earl Stanley Gardner?

The Card System Explained

Why It Works

Takeaways for Any Writer

5. Practical Blueprint: Write a Novel Fast Without Losing Depth

Phase 1 – Ideation (1–2 weeks)

Phase 2 – Structure (2–3 weeks)

Phase 3 – Sprint Draft (4–6 weeks)

Phase 4 – Revision (4–8 weeks)

6. When Speed Can Backfire (And How to Avoid It)

7. Bottom Line: Speed Is a Tool, Not a Philosophy

8. Quick‑Start Checklist (Print‑Friendly)

Further Reading

Share this:

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Share this:

Share this:

1. The Myth of the “Quick‑Write” Novel

Why the Fear of “Too‑Slow” Persists

2. The Counter‑Argument: “Take Your Time, Get the Detail Right”

What “Taking Your Time” Looks Like in Practice

3. Planning: The Bridge Between Speed and Substance

Types of Planning Systems

4. Case Study: Earl Stanley Gardner and the 3 × 5‑Card System

Who Was Earl Stanley Gardner?

The Card System Explained

Why It Works

Takeaways for Any Writer

5. Practical Blueprint: Write a Novel Fast Without Losing Depth

Phase 1 – Ideation (1–2 weeks)

Phase 2 – Structure (2–3 weeks)

Phase 3 – Sprint Draft (4–6 weeks)

Phase 4 – Revision (4–8 weeks)

6. When Speed Can Backfire (And How to Avoid It)

7. Bottom Line: Speed Is a Tool, Not a Philosophy

8. Quick‑Start Checklist (Print‑Friendly)

Further Reading

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4. Case Study: Earl Stanley Gardner and the 3 × 5‑Card System

Who Was Earl Stanley Gardner?

4. Case Study: Earl Stanley Gardner and the 3 × 5‑Card System

Who Was Earl Stanley Gardner?