The 2am Rant: What the hell time is it anyway, and why should I care?

And why is a coyote baying?

Oh, that’s right, at the time we were in Canada, and the ice hockey channel was running in the background while I was trying to work.

It brought to mind, then, the interesting concept of movement through time zones, and how it was possible to live the same day for nearly two days, which is as close as I was going to get to ‘Groundhog Day’.

It’s not something that I’ve considered when writing stories because usually we are grounded in one particular time zone, or if we’re travelling, we just go from one chapter to the next, each a different location, and the reader is no wiser.

Except the editor is and pulls me up when it appears, I think it’s during the day, when in reality it’s really 3am.

But, just to illustrate my point, the following is what I wrote two Christmases ago, and boy, was it confusing at times.

Alright, we’ve arrived in Lake Louise from Kamloops, and there’s been a time change. Being from Australia, we lost or gained so many hours, I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.

Yes, I left on the 26th of December, travelled around half the planet, and it’s still the 26th, after a stopover in Shanghai, where it was the 27th.

Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?

On another day in Canada, it was the 30th. The day before, back home, it was my wife’s birthday in Australia, and we got several calls on the 29th, which was amusing, to say the least.

Now, we’ve gone from Kamloops to Lake Louise, and apparently, now that we are in Alberta, it’s an hour later.

The rental car we’re driving didn’t get it, and we’re still an hour behind.

My phone didn’t get it, but it is understandable because I didn’t connect it to the Canadian network to give us an internet connection, because it was going to cost money.

It did on my wife’s phone, which is connected to the network, and it’s the only device we have that tells the correct time.

And why do we really need to know what time it is?

So we make the plane the day after tomorrow, from Calgary to Toronto.

I never realised that time was so important, and I wonder how people who travel the world remain sane with all the changes to the time zones.

Just how do road warriors get on?

Searching for locations: Vancouver, Canada – 3

It’s always a given that, whatever city you stay in, unless it’s overnight, you go on a tour and see the sights.

Even when you’re staying a short distance from the city, you may make the effort to catch a train or bus, then get on the hop-on, hop-off tour. There’s always one in just about every city you visit.

Vancouver was no exception.

Except…

We arrived in the rain, went to sleep while the rain came down, woke up to the rain, and a heavy dose of jet lag or perhaps it was more that we had spent 24 and a half hours travelling from Brisbane to Vancouver via Shanghai.

We had an excellent view out the window of our room, looking towards the shopping mall and the steady falling rain.

I felt sorry watching the construction workers on the building site, which was the main vista we had to look at.

It could have been worse. Endless mountains with snow on them.

What to do. Venture out in the rain and go on the tour, on pop over to the shopping mall and pick up a few boxing day bargains, no, sorry, boxing week bargains.

We have had some experience going on hop-on, hop-off tours in open-top buses in the rain. And the last time was not a pleasant experience, even though we learned a valuable lesson, not to stand in front of a cannon and yell ‘fire’. Apparently, that’s how Admiral Nelson lost his arm.

But…

The shopping mall won.

We’d wait and see if the weather improved. Hang on, isn’t Vancouver near Seattle, and doesn’t it rain 300 days of the year?

Not holding my breath.

I feel sorry for the construction workers again. Still raining, still cold, and still no reason to get out of bed.

Day 2 in Vancouver turned out to be the same as day 1.

Hang on, there’s a development.

We’re on the 16th floor and up at those lofty heights, we can see not only the rain but intermingled with it a few flakes of snow.

Whilst we procrastinate about what we’re going to do, the snowflakes increase into small flurries.

Yep, we’re off to the mall again and going for a walk in the snow.

On the way back, we drop into the Boston Pizza, which has a sports bar, and there you can sit, drink, eat, and watch the ice hockey, or whatever sort of thing is going on at the time.

Today it’s a junior ice hockey tournament, but Canada is not playing. Just the same, a long, cold beer and ice hockey? How close to heaven is that?

I can now cross that off the bucket list.

Day 3, we’re going on a great rail journey, well, we are going to get the train to the city and collect the rental car, a car on the booking form that was supposedly a Jeep Grand Cherokee or similar.

Of course, ‘or similar’ are the words to be feared here because in truth, the rental company can throw anything at you, so long as it matches the brief: three people and three large suitcases.

And, you guessed it…

The ‘or similar’ got us a Fort Flex.

Sounded like some place where exhausted soldiers were fending off the Indians in a last-ditch battle.

Perhaps one or two too many American movies, I think.

What I learned about writing – What is an acceptable age to stop writing

Pen Down? Never! Why There’s No ‘Acceptable Age’ to Stop Writing

It’s a question that might silently gnaw at writers, especially as the years accumulate: “Am I too old to be doing this? Is there an acceptable age to finally put the pen down?”

Let’s take a deep breath and shatter this myth right now.

The beautiful, liberating truth is: there isn’t one.

Unlike professional sports where physical peak defines a career, or industries that demand intense, rapid-fire innovation, writing thrives on something entirely different: life experience, wisdom, observation, and the enduring power of the human spirit. These are qualities that only deepen and enrich with time.

Why the Calendar Doesn’t Define Your Craft

The idea of an “acceptable age” to stop writing is a construct, a societal whisper that has no place in the world of storytelling. Here’s why you should ignore it:

Wisdom is Your Superpower: Youth brings fresh perspectives, but age brings the nuanced understanding that only comes from living through joy, sorrow, triumph, and failure. Every single year you live adds another layer to your understanding of human nature, making your characters richer, your plots more profound, and your themes more resonant.
A Richer Tapestry of Experience: Think of your life as a vast library. With every passing decade, you add new wings, new genres, new collections. This reservoir of lived experience is invaluable for a writer. You have more to draw from, more to reflect upon, and more unique insights to offer your readers.
Writing as Lifelong Learning: The act of writing keeps your mind sharp, your curiosity piqued, and your creative muscles toned. It’s a fantastic form of mental exercise that can genuinely contribute to well-being as we age. Why would you want to stop something that is so beneficial?
The Perspective of Time: Have you ever revisited an old memory and seen it in a completely new light? Age provides that distance and perspective, allowing you to craft narratives that explore complex emotions and historical events with greater clarity and depth. What felt overwhelming at 30 might become a powerful narrative at 70.
Technology is Your Ally: Worried about typing speed or hand cramps? Dictation software, ergonomic keyboards, larger screens, and assistive technologies mean that physical limitations are no longer insurmountable barriers. Adaptation, not cessation, is the key.

Legends Who Wrote On (and On!)

History is filled with writers who found their voice late, or continued to produce masterpieces well into their golden years:

Laura Ingalls Wilder: Didn’t publish her first “Little House” book until she was 65!
Frank McCourt: Won a Pulitzer for Angela’s Ashes in 1997 when he was 66.
Agatha Christie: Continued to write bestsellers and intricate mysteries well into her 80s.
Toni Morrison: Published acclaimed novels throughout her 70s and 80s, including God Help the Child at 84.
Harriet Doerr: Published her first novel, Stones for Ibarra, and won a National Book Award at 74.

These are not anomalies; they are testaments to the enduring power of the written word and the human capacity for creation.

So, When Is the Acceptable Age to Stop Writing?

When the stories stop calling out to you. When your imagination runs dry. When the desire to connect, to share, to create, finally fades.

For most writers, that moment never truly arrives. The urge to tell stories is intrinsic, deeply woven into the fabric of who we are. It’s a fire that, if tended, can burn brightly for a lifetime.

Don’t let the calendar dictate your creative journey. Pick up that pen, open that laptop, and keep pouring your unique perspective onto the page. The world needs your stories, no matter how many candles are on your birthday cake.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 139

Day 139 – Writing Exercise

The hall was the quietest it had been while the king was still alive.

…

There had been a hush all over the kingdom after the old king had died. He had lived for exactly 100 years, and right up until the last day, he had been wise and imposing.

Not once in his sixty-five-year reign had there been any talk of sedition or treason. He was fair and forceful to everyone, whatever station in life they came from.

It was more than could be said for his forebears, some of whom had been ‘terrible’. Ivan had been a particular example. Some had been ‘benevolent’ like George, his grandfather. He promised his Queen he would never be like his father before him, and he wasn’t.

When it came time for the eldest child, either male or female, to take over the role of Monarch of West Lexis, you were allowed to use your own name or pick one from a set.

Those sets included Ivan, George, Richard, John and Charles. For the girls, the names were Elizabeth, Jane, Anne, Margaret and Susannah.

In the most recent line of succession, there had been three boys, George, Walter and John, and three girls, Elizabeth, Susan and Frances. George was the eldest boy, and Elizabeth was the second eldest.

In an unusual accident whilst conducting the annual hunt, in which men went out into the woods to kill deer to stock up on meat for winter, it was the right of the eldest son to run the hunt.

He had been, it was said when the news of the fatality had been broadcast across the land, in the wrong place at the wrong time. And it had been the first time ever.

It had caused great sadness, and a hundred days of mourning had to pass before the new monarch was crowned. That had happened from the day after the old king was buried in the sacred graveyard of the monarchs, a place where only the Chancellor and his personal guard knew.

Once there, and buried, only then could his mortal soul continue on its journey to the final resting place of all monarchs, Valhalla.

…

Ludrig, Superintendent of the castle guard, was about to do the morning rounds, the day after it had been proclaimed that the hundred days of mourning were over.

The sun had come up through the mountains, a bright yellow, signifying not only a brilliant start to the next day, but a good omen, that the weight of the next monarchs would begin with the blessings of the Gods.

Life was beginning to return to the castle’s main corridors and rooms, with the castle workers moving on to clean and prepare for the coronation activities before the big day.

Ludrig’s job was to oversee those activities in conjunction with the Chancellor. He was on top of the East tower, the first to see the sun every morning, when the skies were clear.

It was this morning, and along with the second in command of the castle guard, Walther, they had stood together, swords facing the first rays until the light glinted on the metal, then swore their allegiance to the new monarch.

Elizabeth.

The king had reached Valhalla, the hundred days of mourning were complete, the people no longer had to wear black out of respect, and life could begin again.

The two men sheathed their swords. They were as much ceremonial as they were for battle, though no one could remember the last battle West Lexis had fought with anyone.

From the top of the castle, on a good day, one could see the main castle of East Lexia, quite a distance away. On a good day, like today.

“Wonder what they’re thinking?”

“That it’s time for celebrations. We have the three other Lexias dignitaries coming to the festivities, and the games are promising to be the best ever.

Ludrig was the current Joust champion and had just fallen short of winning the Knight, Grand Master title, a title he had held for the last five tournaments.

It was bound to happen eventually. He was getting old, despite being remarkably fit for his age.

“All of them are, Walther. And I have been working on the fault that caused the loss of the title last. Sir Samson will not get away with it again.”

“I heard he has a new bag of tricks available.”

“What new tricks? He talks big but doesn’t show us anything. He is, as he had always been, a windbag.
He won’t know what hit him.”

Or so Ludrig thought. It was Ludrig’s only failing, his ego that refused to believe he could never be bested.

Walther shrugged. That was in the future.

In the meantime, it was going to be non-stop preparations. Tournaments to be set up, names of the competitors to be collected, sport fields set up, banquets for both nobles and the commoners to be set you and food arranged.

The young queen was out of mourning and could now tour the country, and the sister countries for many discussions and political policy reviews, the way the country would be run and how it would interact with her sister countries.

He was in charge of the Queen’s escort and had to prepare for that too. It was going to be a very busy schedule.

“Time passes far too quickly for my liking.”

“Better get to it then.”

The last rays of the sun that lowered up onto the sky before it came out from behind the hills had dissipated, and the yellow orb glowed in a clear blue sky. The omen was predicting peace, happiness, and prosperity for all.

The separated in the guard house below, Ludwig to report to the Queen, Walther to the barracks to begin drilling the men. The lazy days were over.

…

It was a 500-year-old story, how the four kingdoms of Lexia came into existence. Far, far back in the almost forgotten mists of time, there used to be one single kingdom. Lexia.

And had not a miracle occurred, there would still be one kingdom.

Or, as some would say, very quietly, it was exactly the opposite.

But whether a miracle or a judgement from the Gods, the Queen of Lexia gave birth to four children on the same day, and under Lexia’s Royal charter, the eldest child was the rightful heir.

That meant the firstborn.

That edict remained in place until the King was on his deathbed, and the Queen, along with the then Chancellor, got the King to sign a decree that all children would become Monarchs in their own right, and that Lexia would be divided into four equal kingdoms, North, South, East, and West. All the same size, each with a central castle, and an equal share of the country’s wealth.

And so it was done.

It had worked for 200 or more years before a dispute broke out between two of the kingdoms, a battle ensued, and then was quelled by the other two, with the surrender terms negotiated, life returned to normal.

Only for one kingdom, or more importantly, the Monarch, it didn’t.

David Montgomery, King of East Lexia, was discontent with how his kingdom was made to pay for the battle he didn’t start, 300 years ago, and it had festered since through the generations.

But he did know that it was the King of West Lexia, back then, who had something to do with the settlement terms, and had managed to get away with stealing a very valuable set of jewels that belonged to West Lexia.

It was one of the original four that Lexia, when united, used for coronations. Each of the four had been granted a set each.

There was a story somewhere in the mists of time that was the true and correct account of the Jewels of the Moonbeam, said to be part of the astrological connection to the Gods. And as far as Mongonery was concerned, West Lexia had them, and he wanted them back.

And with the coronation of the new Queen of West Lexia, it was time for the truth to come out.

…

It was early, the first day of the pre-coronation festivities, starting with the grand tour of West Lexia.

Not that Elizabeth hadn’t been out and about during the mourning period, after all, she was still the Queen, and had only to be officially recognised by government and the church.

At long last, and thankfully, she would not have to wear black. Only those who chose to would.

Her personal maid, Nathalie, had set out a purple dress, relatively plain in design, but spoke of elegance and majesty. With her Princess tiara and the sapphire necklace that was inherited from her mother on the day of succession, it would let everyone know that Elizabeth was their Queen.

Nathalie had worked hard to progress to be the Queen’s personal handmaid. It had been her goal from the moment she started as a maid in the castle. She knew one day her mistress would become Queen, and had persevered through all the tantrums and youthful exuberance and their relationship that once started very rocky, had matured into one of mutual respect.

As one of her talents, the ability to converse, listen, and understand what she was either hearing or discussing, Nathalie always had her ears open, taking in everything around her.

Her mistress never once asked to be a spy, but was genuinely surprised that Nathalie was always well across Castle affairs, and had stories she could tell, but she had learned early that discretion was a wise master. Sometimes, just part of a story was not the whole story.

There was always a scandal, however, and Elizabeth loved scandal, especially if it involved her brothers and sisters and nobility, simply because of their hypocrisy. Elizabeth herself had secrets, but she made sure that she was very discreet.

Elizabeth summoned Nathalie when it was time to get ready for the Chancellor’s morning visit, starting the conversation with the same question, “What is the gossip this morning?”

Nathalie had already laid out all her mistress’s clothing ready for the mistress to approve or disapprove, which didn’t happen very often, ready to put on, piece by piece. Sometimes it could be a laborious job.

“Your Royal Highness.” She curtsied. “Outside the castle, there are rumours of incursions by bandits from the south.”

“We have those all the time. Since the famine, it has been difficult for all of us, and some people think it is easier to steal than to try to mitigate the effects by doing something about it. We built a dam, and now have the water to grow crops during famine. As for the incursions, we will put a stop to them.”

She had spoken to the Chancellor, and he was drawing up a proclamation. All thieves who were caught and found guilty were not going to enjoy the same accommodations her father extended to them.

There were other interesting snippets of conversation between the two, always in hushed tones because there was no telling who was listening, as the layers went on.

“Was there anything else?” They were up to the top layer, a sash, the tiara, jewellery, and shoes. This morning it was taking a long time.

“Have you heard of the Jewels of the Moonbeam?”

She stopped suddenly and gripped the arm of the girl. “Where did you hear that?”

Nathalie immediately went on the defensive, thinking she had gone too far, that it was a top secret subject, and should have inferred that from the fact she hadn’t heard very much and initially wasn’t going to say anything.

Now she had stepped over that line and couldn’t worm her way out.

“Two … two soldiers walking down the street,” Nathalie stammered breathlessly, now almost terrified.

Elizabeth immediately realised she had scared her maid, obviously fearing the worst. The Royal Children had a reputation for quick tempers and appalling behaviour, and whilst her earlier years were difficult, she had matured.

She immediately softened her look and let her go, and gently caressed the red welt forming above her wrist. “I am sorry, Nathalie, I don’t know what came over me. It’s a touchy subject for all of the Royal families.”

“Then I shall not mention it again.”

“No. No. We keep no secrets between us, Nathalie. I would like to know anything you hear. But please don’t tell anyone else. But this, you overheard two soldiers? Would you recognise them again?”

Nathalie looked surprised. “No. They all look the same to me.”

Elizabeth had to admit she was right. Except for a small flag on the sleeves, one kingdom could not really be identified by another. But she knew, instinctively, that they were not soldiers from her kingdom.

“Can you remember if they said anything else?”

“That was all I heard. They were too far away, and I wasn’t going to follow them. You know what soldiers do to servant girls.”

She did, and that was something else she had to address with the Chancellor.

As for the Jewels, she had only just heard from the Chancellor that they would have to visit the castle strongroom where family valuables were kept, along with the Kingdom’s fortune, to try on the Coronation jewellery, also known as West Lexia’s Jewels of the Moonbeam.

It was the first time she had ever heard of them.

“You must not repeat anything you heard about those Jewels. They are a secret within a very small circle of this Kingdom. You will never mention them again. Am I clear?”

“I shall not, your Majesty. You have my word of honour.”

“Excellent. I know I can rely on you.”

They went back to finishing dressing. Nathalie had to get home. She had told one other person, her mother, and she was not one to hold her tongue at the best of times.

…

Walther had been summoned to the castle and the Queen’s chambers. She needed escorting. He brought three men, the leaders of each of the three groups that made up the guard.

It had been, he believed, the luck of the draw, his name with three others tossed into the box and to be drawn for who would be second in command.

Each of the four men was equally qualified, but Ludrig had been particularly pleased that he had drawn Walther’s name.

Walther had been his protege; he had taught him well, and unlike some of the others, was willing to learn and not improvise.

He was also intelligent and could improvise when it mattered, like in the middle of mock battles. It made him an excellent choice for the Queen’s private guard. It helped that she liked him, unlike his two predecessors, both of whom treated her like an errant child.

Both ended up languishing at a border guard post.

Walther believed in punctuality and respect for the uniform. Each of his men was in ceremonial dress, but also armed, ready for anything.

A formidable force to be reckoned with.

And as they made their way from the guard’s mess to the Queen’s chambers, it was a reminder to the people that the guard were visible, available, and ready to protect the Queen and her people.

The cry, “Make way for the Queen’s guard,” was treated with the respect and reverence it deserved.

Outside the main chamber, the three guardsmen formed a line. No one would pass unless bidden.

Walther entered when requested.

She was ready, taking two of her personal maids with her. Walther would walk with her, half a step behind, the maids, one guard on either side of the maids and one at the rear.

Destination: the Treasury.

Ludrig had set up checkpoints and had men on guard. It was the first real exercise since her accession. Practice was over.

The path from the chamber required leaving the main castle and taking a path to one of the structures at the rear of the main castle, one of the granary, the middle, the church, or the other, the treasury.

In the treasury was a vault, and in the vault were the Kingdom’s most valuable treasures. The treasury was also where the Kingdom’s coins were struck, and they were currently creating a set of coins commemorating the coronation of the new Queen.

As far as Walther was concerned, his Queen was there to inspect the new coinage.

As expected, people turned out to see their Queen along the short path in the open. Walther saw no hostility, but it wasn’t exactly as joyous as he thought it might be.

In fact, if someone had asked him what the general mood of the people was, it would be subdued, maybe even a little disappointed. But alongside that, he noticed something else: men loitering.

They did not look like labourers or artisans; they were men who looked like they had military training, dressed in labourers’ clothes to hide behind.

That was far more worrisome and a matter to take up with Ludrig after this detail.

At the Treasury, they left the three-man guard at the entrance to the Treasury, and he joined the Queen, her two maids and the Chancellor who had just appeared from inside the main building.

From the entrance, they went to the vault. The treasury guard was the only person who had a key, and by the time they reached the vault, the head of the guard, Smithton, arrived breathless.

And late.

Elizabeth was unimpressed.

The Chancellor apologised and said he would take care of the matter. The atmosphere was quite tense.

If it were up to Walther, he would have taken the guard and locked him up.

The vault was opened, and only the Queen and the Chancellor went in.

…

The vault was quite large and had various rooms within it for the treasures: one for gold, one for silver, one for spare utensils used throughout the castle, and another for gemstones.

And in the corner, a pedestal with a special box which held the Kingdom’s Jewels of the Moonbeam.

They were the most significant treasure in the Kingdom, used only for the Coronation of the new monarch. Elizabeth had requested to see them.

“The necklace was one of four created at the time of the great split, each given a different colour, red, blue, green and amber. Ours is the blue set.”

The Chancellor took out a special key and unlocked the box, as Elizabeth moved closer.

He lifted the lid.

Both gasped. The box was empty.

The Jewels were gone.

“Where is it?” Elizabeth asked.

“It was here the last time I looked. I check once a month.”

“Can we have the coronation without it?”

“No. The charter forbids it.”

Elizabeth went back to Walther. “Seal off the castle. No one out but let people come in. Turn out the guard. I want this whole castle searched from top to bottom.” She gave him a drawing of the necklace the Chancellor had given her.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And if anyone tries to leave or gives you any trouble, lock them up.”

He nodded, then left.

…

Charles Heath 2026

Searching for locations: Vancouver, Canada – 4

Staying at Hampton Inn and Suites downtown, whatever that means, because it looks like we are in the middle of nowhere.

But, judging by the crowd in the breakfast room, it’s a popular hotel. Of course, it is Sunday morning so this could be the weekend escape people.

Two things I remember about staying in Hampton Inns are firstly the waffles and whipped butter. It’s been five years, but nothing has changed; they are as delicious as ever. The other is where I discovered vanilla-flavoured milk for coffee, and it, too, is addictive.

They also used to have flat burgers that were made out of sausage meat, which was delicious, but on the first day, they were not on the menu.

Nevertheless, it was still a very yummy breakfast.

After some research into where we might find this Pixmi unicorn, it appears that it is available at a ‘toys are us’ store in one of the suburbs of Vancouver. So, resuming the quest, we took a taxi to West Broadway, the street where the store is located.

A quick search of the store finds where the toys we’re looking for are, after asking one of the sales staff, and we find there are at least a dozen of them. Apparently, they are not as popular in Canada as they might be in America. Cheaper too, because the exchange rate for Canadian dollars is much better than for American dollars. Still, 70 dollars for a stuffed toy is a lot of money.

We also get some slime, stuff that our middle granddaughter seems to like playing with.

After shopping, we set off down West Broadway, the way we had come, looking for a taxi to return us to the hotel. There’s no question of walking back to the hotel.

A few hours later, we walked to the observation tower, which was not very far from the hotel,

a place where we could get a 360-degree view of the city of Vancouver although it was very difficult to see any of the old buildings because they were hidden by the newer buildings, nor could we see the distant mountains because of the haze.

After leaving the tower, we walked down Water Street to see the steam clock and the old world charm of a cobbled street and old buildings

We stopped at the Spaghetti Factory Italian restaurant for dinner, and is so popular that we had to wait 10 minutes to start with. It doesn’t take all that long to order and have the food delivered to the table. Inside the restaurant, there is an actual cable car, but we didn’t get to sit in it.

I have steak, rare, mushrooms, and spaghetti with marinara sauce. No, marinara doesn’t mean seafood sauce, but a very tasty tomato-based sauce. The steak was absolutely delicious and extremely tender, which made it more difficult to cut with a steak knife.

The write-up for the marinara sauce is, ‘it tastes so fresh because it is made directly from vine-ripened tomatoes, not from concentrate, packed within 6 hours of harvest. We combine them with fresh, high-quality ingredients such as caramelised onions, roasted garlic and extra virgin olive oil.’

Oh, and did I mention they have a streetcar right there in the middle of the restaurant

I’m definitely going to try to make this when we get home.

After dinner, we return to the observation tower, the ticket allowing us to go back more than once, and see the sights at night. I can’t say it was all that spectacular.

Another day has gone, and we are heading home tomorrow.

In a word: Steal

You know how it goes, somebody breaks into your house, and they steal the family jewels, which means they’ve taken something that’s not theirs.

Baseballers will be well familiar with the term steal a base because that sneaky second base runner is trying to get to third, before the pitcher fires in a curveball.

But then there’s that same thief trying to rob you, who is stealing his way downstairs.

You come across a bargain, that is, the seller doesn’t quite know what they’ve got and assumes it’s junk, that’s a steal.

On stage, one actor can steal the limelight from another. If a film, an actor with a lesser part, can, if they’re good enough, steal the scene.

And if you’re lucky enough, you might steal a kiss, or just get slapped.

Then there’s the government, using a certain event to change the laws, and it might just steal your liberty.

This is not to be confused with the word steel, which means something else entirely, like a very malleable metal that’s low in carbon.

Or like most of our heroes, they have nerves of steel, or if they are like us, they need to steel themselves with a suitable fortification, rum is my choice.

But for me, I like the phrase, he had a steely look on his face, and it was hard to tell if that was good or bad.

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the Past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The Birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus, the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all rewrites, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation. I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample. I was going to give them the re-worked short story. Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally, it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself. We were there for New Year’s, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening, we were out late and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow; it was cold and wet, and apartment buildings were shimmering in the street light, and I thought, “This is the place where my main character will live”.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected. I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went, so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller Centre is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy man with few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party. I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble. No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

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