Category: #amwriting

The first case of PI Walthenson – “A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers”

This case has everything: red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

PIWalthJones1

An excerpt from the book:

…

When Harry took the time to consider his position, a rather uncomfortable position at that, he concluded that he was somehow involved in another case that meant very little to him.

Not that it wasn’t important in some way he was yet to determine, it was just that his curiosity had got the better of him, and it had led to this: sitting in a chair, securely bound, waiting for someone, one of his captors had called Doug.

It was not the name that worried him so much; it was the evil laugh that had come after the name was spoken.

Doug what? Doug the ‘destroyer’, Doug the ‘dangerous’, Doug the ‘deadly’; there were several sinister connotations, and perhaps that was the point of the laugh, to make it more frightening than it was.

But there was no doubt about one thing in his mind right then: he’d made a mistake. A very big. and a costly mistake. Just how big the cost, no doubt, he would soon find out.

His mother and his grandmother, the wisest person he had ever known, had once told him never to eavesdrop.

At the time, he couldn’t help himself, and instead of minding his own business, listening to a one-sided conversation that ended with a time and a place. The very nature of the person receiving the call was, at the very least, sinister, and, because of the cryptic conversation, there appeared to be, or at least to Harry, criminal activity involved.

For several days, he had wrestled with the thought of whether he should go. Stay on the fringe, keep out of sight, observe and report to the police if it was a crime. Instead, he had willingly gone down the rabbit hole.

Now, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, several heat lamps hanging over his head, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry’s fear was at the highest level.

Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied, it literally made it impossible to clear it. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed and then shook his head, trying to prevent a recurrence. It was to no avail.

Let the stinging sensation be a reminder of what was right and what was wrong.

It was obvious that it was the right place and the right time, but in considering his current perilous situation, it definitely was the wrong place to be, at the worst possible time.

It was meant to be his escape, an escape from the generations of lawyers, what were to Harry, dry, dusty men who had been in business since George Washington said to the first Walthenson to step foot on American soil, ‘Why don’t you become a lawyer?” when asked what he could do for the great man.

Or so it was handed down as lore, though Harry didn’t think Washington meant it literally, the Walthenson’s, then as now, were not shy of taking advice.

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

He was, Harry’s father was prone to saying, the exception to every rule. Harry guessed his father was referring to the fact that his son wanted to be a Private Detective rather than a dry, dusty lawyer. Just the clothes were enough to turn Harry off the profession.

So, with a little of the money Harry inherited from one of his aunts, he leased an office in Gramercy Park and had it renovated to look like the Sam Spade detective agency, you know the one, Spade and Archer, and The Maltese Falcon.

There’s a movie and a book by Dashiell Hammett if you’re interested.

So, there it was, painted on the opaque glass inset of the front door, ‘Harold Walthenson, Private Detective’.

There was enough money to hire an assistant, and it took a week before the right person came along, or, more to the point, didn’t just see his business plan as something sinister. Ellen, a tall, cool woman in a long black dress, or so the words of a song in his head told him, fitted in perfectly.

She’d seen the movie, but she said with a grin, Harry was no Humphrey Bogart.

Of course not, he said, he didn’t smoke.

Three months on the job, and it had been a few calls, no ‘real’ cases, nothing but missing animals, and other miscellaneous items. What he really wanted was a missing person. Or perhaps a beguiling, sophisticated woman who was as deadly as she was charming, looking for an errant husband, perhaps one that she had already ‘dispatched’.

Or for a tall, dark and handsome foreigner who spoke in riddles and in heavily accented English, a spy, or perhaps an assassin, in town to take out the mayor. The man was such an imbecile that Harry had considered doing it himself.

Now, in a back room of a disused warehouse, that wishful thinking might be just about to come to a very abrupt end, with none of the romanticised trappings of the business befalling him. No beguiling women, no sinister criminals, no stupid policemen.

Just a nasty little man whose only concern was how quickly or how slowly Harry’s end was going to be.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2024

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 180

Day 180 – Rest periods for compulsive writers

…

The Inescapable Itch: How Compulsive Writers Finally Unplug (and Why They Dread It)

For the compulsive writer, the blank page isn’t just a workspace; it’s a nervous system. To stop writing is, in many ways, to stop feeling the pulse of the world. But even the most prolific ink-stained wretches occasionally find their pens running dry, or their minds fogging over with the static of over-output.

How does a writer whose baseline is “compulsive” actually step away? And more importantly, is the silence of a break actually a form of creative death?

The Williams Paradigm: The Panic of the Still Moment

If you want a masterclass in the agony of the “break,” look to Tennessee Williams.

Williams was a man possessed. His plays—A Streetcar Named Desire, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof—seemed to bleed out of him in a fit of architectural necessity. He didn’t just write stories; he exorcised ghosts. For Williams, the act of writing was a frantic attempt to outrun his own inner demons.

When Williams wasn’t writing, he wasn’t “relaxing” in the way modern self-help gurus suggest. He wasn’t taking a spa day or practising mindfulness. He was vibrating with a specific, high-frequency anxiety. He famously equated the downtime between creative bursts with a kind of spiritual oblivion.

He didn’t take breaks by choice; he took them when the exhaustion became too heavy to carry. But in those quiet intervals, the “boredom” he felt was actually a confrontation with reality—a reality he found far less interesting and far more terrifying than the worlds he built on paper.

Why the Break Feels Like a Grave

For the compulsive writer, a break feels like “death” for three distinct reasons:

  1. The Loss of Control: When you are writing, you are the god of a small, contained universe. You decide who lives, who dies, and how the dialogue flows. In the real world, you are subject to the messy, boring, and uncontrollable whims of traffic, groceries, and small talk.
  2. The Shadow of the “Interior”: Writers often use work as a distraction from the recursive loops of their own thoughts. When the writing stops, the inner monologue—usually the one questioning your worth or replaying old embarrassments—gets the megaphone.
  3. The Identity Crisis: If you define yourself as a “Writer,” then a day spent not writing is a day you aren’t “being” anything. You feel like a malfunctioning machine.

How to Take a Break Without Losing Your Mind

If you are like Williams—wired to the page—you can’t just stop. You have to “pivot” your compulsion. Here is how the pros handle the hiatus:

  • Change the Input: If you can’t stop the output, change the channel. Switch to a medium that doesn’t feel like “work.” If you write prose, spend your break painting, gardening, or cooking. You are still creating, but you’ve let the part of your brain that handles syntax rest.
  • The “Low-Stakes” Journal: Give yourself permission to write in a way that doesn’t count. Take a pocket notebook where you are forbidden from writing anything “publishable.” Write about your lunch, the colour of the sky, or how annoying your neighbour’s dog is. It keeps the muscle moving without the pressure of the performance.
  • Embrace the “Restless Walk”: Williams often found his best ideas while walking. If you’re bored, don’t sit still. The brain that is compulsive needs movement. A three-mile walk can settle the nervous system while allowing the subconscious to keep filing away plot points.

The Verdict: Is It Boredom or Fuel?

Is it boring? Yes.

But here is the secret that Tennessee Williams eventually realised: Boredom is the soil in which the best ideas take root.

When you are constantly writing, you are mining your storehouse of ideas until you hit bedrock. You are repeating yourself because you haven’t given yourself time to experience anything new. The break, as terrifying as it feels, is the process of refilling the well.

You aren’t dying when you put the pen down. You’re simply waiting for the tide to come back in. And trust me—if you are truly a compulsive writer—the tide always comes back. You’ll be back at the desk before you know it, pen in hand, wondering why you ever missed the silence in the first place.

…

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

I’m not a fan of romance novels but …

There was something about this one that resonated with me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But is it all the truth?

What would we do in similar circumstances?

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

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

…

Available on Amazon here: amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 24

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

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

And, so, it continues…

 

While waiting for Carlo and Chiara to return with the villagers, and taking some time to consider the plan that had almost formed in my mind, I went back to my room, which, I was guessing was once used for wine storage, because now that I had taken a moment to stop and consider my surroundings, I could smell the aroma of spilled wine.

With a little more light, I could see the arches within which the bottles would be stacked.  I’d also noticed while I’d been outside, that there were vines everywhere, albeit in bad shape as the people who tended them had either left, or been taken away, or shot.

Red grapes if I was not mistaken, though I had no idea what the variety might be.

If the war dragged on much longer, it would do a lot of damage to the wine-growing districts, and I doubted, when the Germans were here, they had any interest in tending the vines, but just drink the wine, and then probably not with the appreciation it deserved.

That had certainly been the case up at the castle before fate turned against me.  Perhaps that was where all of the wine from this cellar had been taken for safekeeping, once the locals thought the Germans had gone forever.  Maybe that was the reason why Leonardo spent so much of his time at the castle, the free wine.

Jack had returned from what I assumed was an inspection of our new quarters and was sitting on the ground next to me.  I wondered what he made of everything he had seen.  It was certainly not a dog’s life being caught in the middle of a war.  

“It’s a fine mess we’re in,” I said to him, and he looked back with uncomprehending eyes.  I would have to brush up on my German.  Or maybe Italian.  It only just occurred to me that he was probably someone’s dog from around here.  We’d only run into each other a few miles away.

“Yes, and I’m sure if you spoke English you could tell me a thing or two.  But, alas, you can’t, so a piece of advice.  Try to keep out of trouble, and by that, next time I go out, you might want to stay here.”

I shrugged.  Things must be bad; I’m talking to a dog.

Martina stopped outside the entrance.  “I heard voices.  Who are you talking to?”

“The dog.  He’s the only one who’s making any sense at the moment.”

“Are you sure he’s not a German spy.  Or, in fact, it’s a he?”

“You probably know as much as I do.  Anything happening?”

“Carlo’s back with a dozen or so of those who want to stay alive.  Chiara has a few more.  The rest have other places to hide if they need to.  We’ve told them to expect a raid.  Leonardo and a few of his men have been out looking for you and told everyone that you are a German spy and that he’ll pay them a lot of money for information about where you are or who’s hiding you.  He doesn’t understand everyone hates him, they always have.”

“Good to know if I run into him, he won’t be happy to see me.”

“This plan of yours?”

“Wallace will be getting edgy about the men he sent out, those men we ambushed at Chiara’s place.  It depends on who he sends, and where they go, but I was thinking we could prepare another ambush at Chiara’s.  All we have to do is wait because I’m sure they’ll get there eventually.”

“And if I know Leonardo, he’ll send them straight to my farm.  He knows that both Carlo and I, and the other two you’ve met were the other four who refused to join him in going up to the castle to make peace.  It seems he’s made a bad choice.”

“Wallace didn’t.  He needs someone like Leonardo to find us.  You’re probably right.  I was thinking Carlo and I could go.  No sense sending all of us, and if anything happens, there will be someone left to carry on.”

“You don’t sound too confident.  You are a soldier, aren’t you?”

“In a manner of speaking.  But I was not trained to be a commando, and not necessarily on the front line, or in this case behind enemy lines.”

“You’re not one of those rich kids whose father bought a commission, so you didn’t have to fight?”

Interesting the ideas foreigners had about elements of the army.  I was not sure if that was done anymore, at least not in this war.

“I have poor parents, that is if they have survived the bombs falling on London.  Refused to give in to Hitler’s aggression.”

I tried to convince them to go to the countryside, just to be safe, but one of the places they thought of going, had also been bombed, so as far as they were concerned, nowhere in England was safe.

“But yes, they did teach me how to shoot, and I know my way around several different types of gun.”  My mind flicked to the sniper rifle and the damage that could do.  

I’d be definitely taking that with me.

I saw her turn her head, and then heard the sound of new arrivals.  Chiara had returned.

“Time’s up for planning.”

I told the dog to stay, but as usual, he ignored me.  We went back into the main cavern where a dozen more people were settling in various places along one wall.  They looked as though they’d packed for a reasonably long stay.

But what worried me was the way they looked at me.  Those rumors Leonardo spread, I was hoping no one believed him.  Above the sound of voices, I could hear Marina speaking to them in Italian, hopefully, to tell them I was not a threat.

I found Carlo. 

“I have a small job to do.  After our last exercise at Chiara’s my old commander will no doubt send someone down to the village to seek answers, and I’m hoping you’ll come with me so we can convince them of the error of their ways.”

He smiled.  There was no mirth in it, and I knew I didn’t have to say anything more.

I saw movement coming from a group of people, and among them the boy I’d met earlier, Enrico.  He had jumped up off the floor when he saw me and came over.

“What are we going to do now.  I mean, we’re not going to sit here and do nothing.”

Boyish enthusiasm.  He had not been shot at yet, and to him, it was all a bit of a game.  I remembered back to the start of the war, and the number of boys who lied about their age, hardly waiting for the war to be declared.  They had no idea what a real war was, and if they had known, they would not have been so recklessly enthusiastic.

“You’re going to stay here and protect your family and all the others here.”

“No.  I want to be useful, fight the bastards.”

Carlo gave him one of his dark stares.  “You will stay here and help others if anything goes wrong.  Out there,” he pointed towards the entrance, “out there, if you’re not careful, you will die.”

Martina had seen him talking to us and came over.

“Enrico, we’ve talked about this.  Go back to your family.”

A last pleading look in case we changed our minds, then he reluctantly returned to his group.

Carlo handed me the sniper rifle and a pistol, a luger, probably captured from a German earlier, when they were in occupation.

“Good luck,” Martina said.

© Charles Heath 2019-2020

An excerpt from “Echoes from the Past”

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

…

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

That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

A yellow car stopped inches from me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now my imagination was playing tricks.

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

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

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

Just in case.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

newechocover5rs

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 25

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

 

I was in the middle of a large building, sitting on a chair, a single light on above me creating a weird shadow in a circle of light.  Beyond that circle was darkness.

But I was grateful there was no blindfold or gag.

It had to be one of the buildings on Benderby’s factory site.  There were a number of older warehouses on the perimeter of the site, boarded up and in disrepair.  I had heard rumours they were going to be refurbished or demolished, no one seemed to be able to decide what to do with them.

It was deathly quiet, but if I strained hard, I thought I could hear the sound of a generator not far away.  Benderby’s had their own mini power station in case the main power grid went down, and I remembered that it was round the time for the six-monthly testing of the generators.  I was definitely inside the Benderby complex.

So, did that make my captor one of Benderby’s men?  Or was it Alex himself, trying to make a bold statement.  I didn’t think he had that sort of aggressive behaviour in him, but he was a Benderby, and they all had violent streaks somewhere in their makeup.

“Good.  You’re awake.”  The distorted voice could be either male or female.  I’d know more when I saw my assailant, but it came from beside me and I tried to look in that direction.  It was difficult because whoever tied me up did a good job.

There was also an echo, brought on by the emptiness of the building.

“What do you want?  I’m not much good to you if you’re trying to break into the main building.  I don’t have night access.”

“I’m not interested in the main building.”

“What are you interested in?”

“You.”

I had expected to hear the word treasure, not me.

“Sadly, I’m not that interesting.”

“So you say.  But maybe it might have something to do with that friend of yours, Boggs.”

“Then it’s the treasure you’re after.”

“Me, personally, no.  The people I work for, I guess.  The word is that Boggs has a treasure map that his father left him.”

This person had to be acquainted with Rico, because only he could possibly know about that particular map, that is, if Boggs had told him, or told his mother, and Rico had overheard him.

Or Boggs had told this person, under duress, that I had the map, holding it for safekeeping.  My mind started conjuring up all sorts of terrifying scenarios, all of which ended badly.

“If Rico told you that, then he was only trying to save his own skin.  He’s been trying to barter a copy of something to the Benderby’s, a map he didn’t have and hadn’t been able to get off Boggs.  If there is such a map, then Boggs has it.”

“I’m sure he told you about it, didn’t he?”

“What are best friends for, but whether I believed him is a different matter.  He told me about a map he said his father had in his possession, and I know he’s been hunting high and low for it, but if he’s found it, then he hasn’t told me about it yet.”

I was trying to sound sincere, but fear has a way of making you sound, well, afraid.

My captor took a step forward into the fringe of the light.  Dressed in black, with a mask, the body shape looked more like a woman than a man, a figure that could be disguised by the bulky outer clothing.

“Who are you?”

“That’s irrelevant.  What I will do to you if you do not tell me the truth, is.  Boggs told me you had the map.  I believe he was telling the truth.”

So, this person had interrogated Boggs.  It would not have taken much.  Boggs was not the bravest soul I knew.  At school, Boggs had always been the first to capitulate in any confrontation.

I wondered if they had searched him.  Of course, they had, and he didn’t have the map on him, which made it easier to deflect the onus to me.

But I didn’t have the map on me either.  I took the precaution of hiding it away in a place no one would find except me.  Now it was a matter of withstanding whatever this person decided was needed to extract ‘the truth’.

The problem was, I didn’t handle confrontation any better than Boggs had.

“And I’m telling you the truth when I tell you I haven’t got the map.  But I do have one of those being peddled at Osborne’s bar.  You can have that one if you like.”

I saw my captor shake their head.  Disdain, or disappointment?

Two steps further into the circle of light, and the two slaps, either side of my face, very hard.  The paid was instant and stinging, bringing tears to my eyes.  It should have brought acquiescence, but deep down defiance was building.  It surprised me.

My captor took a step back and looked down on me.  “Don’t make me have to hurt you.  All I want is the map.”

“I can’t give you what I don’t have.”

Closed fist this time, and aside from the teeth jarring, possible jaw-breaking, nose bleeding effect, I was starting to consider how long I could withstand this sort of beating.

“The map?”  Patience was running thin, anger was building.

“I can’t…”

Several punches to the ribs and stomach, taking my breath away and making it very difficult to breathe.  Pains where I’d never had pain before.  I’d had beatings at school but never like this.

Once more a step back, I could now only see the black figure through blurry eyes.

Time to plead to deaf ears, “You can beat me to within an inch of my life, but I can’t give you what I don’t have.  It’s as simple as that.”

And then I waited for the next round of punches.

A minute.  Two.

Then a new voice, out in the void, said, “He doesn’t have it.  This is a nothing but an elaborate hoax.”

Not a recognisable voice though.

A final blow rendered me unconscious.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

A 2am Rant: Almost nonsensical descriptions we sometimes use without thinking

I found this explanation on the internet which seems to sum up what odd phrases like ‘you can’t judge a book by its cover’ mean: ‘a word or phrase used in a non-literal sense for rhetorical or vivid effect.’

We, as writers, are constantly reminded that we should not use these in our writing because most people might not understand their use.

But, being that unconventional, never-to-be-told type, I honestly think that it sometimes adds a degree of whimsy to the story.

I remember some years ago when I was working with a Russian chap who’d not been in the country very long, and though he had a reasonable use of English, he was not quite up with our figures of speech.

And made me realise when he kept asking me what they meant, just how many I used in everyday conversation.

Most of these figures of speech use descriptions that do not necessarily match the word being described, such as ‘I dance like I have two left feet’.

And that pretty much sums up how good I can dance.  But …

‘Like a bat out of hell’, not sure how this got into the vernacular, but it means to get the hell out of dodge quickly.  Hang on, that’s another saying, American, and the way Dodge city was in western American folklore, if you irritated a gunslinger, then best be on your way, fast.

Otherwise, yes, you guessed it, you were at the end of another saying, you would get a one-way ticket to Boot Hill.  In other words, the cemetery.

And while I’m digressing, again, Yul Brynner made a trip to Boot Hill very memorable in The Magnificent Seven.

Then,

‘Like a bull in a China shop’ describes a toddler let loose

‘More front than Myers’, as my mother used to say, but in context, Myers is the Australian version of the English Selfridges or Harrods or Paris Galleries Lafayette.  It refers to the width of the street frontage of the stores

‘As mad as a hatter’, though not necessarily of the millinery kind, but, well, you can guess

‘As nutty as a fruitcake’, provided your fruitcake has nuts in it

You can see, if you get the references, they are somewhat apt, and, yes, they sometimes creep into my stories.

What I learned about writing – What is ‘style’

What Is Style, Anyway? A Deep Dive into Its Many Faces

You hear the word “style” thrown around everywhere. “Oh, she has great style!” “That’s not really my style.” “We need to adopt a new brand style.” But have you ever stopped to consider just how multifaceted and powerful this seemingly simple concept truly is?

From the clothes we wear to the way we craft a sentence, style is an invisible force shaping perception, conveying meaning, and defining identity. Let’s peel back the layers and explore the various aspects that make up the rich tapestry of “style.”

1. Your Signature: Personal Style

This is perhaps the most intimate and immediately recognizable form of style. Your personal style is your unique fingerprint on the world – the way you speak, dress, decorate your home, or even how you approach a problem.

In writing, your personal style is your distinctive voice. It’s the rhythm of your prose, your preferred vocabulary, your unique way of structuring sentences, and the characteristic tone you adopt. It’s what makes a reader say, “Ah, I can tell this is by [Your Name]!” early on in a piece. It’s developed over time, shaped by your experiences, personality, and influences, and it’s what makes your work authentically yours. Whether it’s a dry wit, a poignant lyricism, or a straightforward reportage, your personal style is your artistic DNA.

2. The Blueprint: Categorical & Aesthetic Styles

Beyond the individual, style often manifests in broader categories or aesthetic movements. These are frameworks that have evolved over time, often tied to specific historical periods, philosophies, or artistic intentions.

Think about architecture: you immediately picture different elements for Gothic (soaring arches, intricate details, dramatic light) versus Minimalist (clean lines, functional forms, understated elegance).

In literature, these categorical styles define genres and movements:

  • Minimalist Prose: Characterised by sparse language, short sentences, and a focus on showing rather than telling. It strips away excess to convey essential meaning.
  • Gothic Style: Evokes a sense of dread, mystery, and romanticism, often featuring dark settings, supernatural elements, and heightened emotions.
  • Free Verse: A poetic style that disregards traditional meter and rhyme schemes, allowing the poet to create their own rhythm and structure, often mimicking natural speech patterns.
  • Stream of Consciousness: A narrative style that attempts to depict the multitudinous thoughts and feelings that pass through the mind.

These styles provide a common language and a set of shared conventions that allow artists and audiences to connect within a recognised context. They are not rigid cages but rather rich traditions from which to draw inspiration or, indeed, to deliberately diverge.

3. The Adaptable Garment: Contextual & Required Style

Sometimes, style isn’t about personal expression or aesthetic preference; it’s about purpose and audience. This is where contextual and required style comes into play – the practical application of tailoring your approach to fit a specific need.

  • Publisher Guidelines: If you’re submitting a manuscript, adhering to publisher style guides (e.g., APA, MLA, Chicago, or an in-house guide) is non-negotiable. This dictates everything from formatting and citation methods to hyphenation rules and preferred spellings. It ensures consistency, clarity, and professionalism.
  • Audience-Specific Writing: A story written for a children’s magazine will have a vastly different style than an academic paper or a pulp fiction novel. The vocabulary, sentence structure, themes, and overall tone must be carefully calibrated to resonate with the intended readers. You wouldn’t use complex metaphors for toddlers, nor overly simplistic language for a literary journal.
  • Platform & Medium Specifics: Articles for a fast-paced online news site demand punchy headlines and concise paragraphs, while a feature in a glossy print magazine might allow for more expansive prose and evocative imagery. Each medium has its own stylistic conventions that best serve its purpose and audience.
  • Brand Voice: Businesses and organisations develop a “brand style” or “voice” to ensure all their communications are consistent and reflect their identity, whether it’s formal and authoritative or playful and approachable.

This aspect of style is less about artistic freedom and more about effective communication. It’s the mark of a skilled practitioner who understands how to adapt their craft to meet external demands without necessarily sacrificing their core personal style. It’s about being versatile enough to wear many hats.

The Art of Balancing Act

Ultimately, mastering style involves a fascinating dance between these three aspects. How do you maintain your unique personal voice while writing in a minimalist style for a publisher with strict guidelines aimed at a niche audience?

The answer lies in understanding that style is not monolithic but a dynamic interplay. Your personal style forms the foundation; categorical styles offer a palette of expressive tools; and contextual styles provide the framework for effective delivery.

Embrace the journey of discovering your own unique style, explore the vast landscapes of established aesthetics, and cultivate the wisdom to adapt your approach when the situation demands it. For understanding “style” in all its forms, you unlock a powerful key to self-expression, communication, and connection.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 178/179

Days 178 and 179 – Writing Exercise

The Prince rescuing a damsel needs rescuing himself

…

I was not in the business of saving damsels in distress.  In fact, I had not seen a damsel in distress.  What I did was live in the shadow of the eldest son and heir to the throne, otherwise known as my brother.

He was the one who would be saving damsels in distress if there were any.

And if he could be bothered.

He had just become a knight after years of training.  It was hard, and as the King said, it would make a man of him.

He looked every bit the man his father had expected of him.  What bothered me was that our father did not expect it of me, and had rebuffed any and all of my requests to train as a knight.

Instead, I got to dress up as a palace guard, not as a Sergeant at Arms, but just a guard.  I had to start at the bottom.  In a job that all the other guards thought was a joke.

There were no wars, no battles, no enemy hordes coming up the side of the hill to storm the castle.  I didn’t think the drawbridge raised or the main gates closed; it had been so long since they had been used.

No, put simply, my life was hell.

I went out to the stables, put on my guard armour, got on my horse and headed for the main gate.  Instead of stopping and reporting for duty, I just kept going.  What was the point?  Who was I guarding the castle from?

…

It was a long and winding road and a warm day.  I was beginning to regret wearing the armour.

I was heading to the next village, half a day’s ride away, and was going to look up Angel, one of the servant girls’ sisters, with whom I had spoken several times.  I liked her, but I didn’t think it went both ways.

I may be a prince, but not one worth marrying.

Up ahead, a man was travelling on foot with a woman.  In the distance, he looked like he was having trouble with her, so I thought I would be chivalrous and see if she needed help

That became more apparent as I got closer.  He was almost dragging her by her hair.

He saw me coming but chose to ignore me.  Even in my armour, I was not as impressive a sight as my brother.

I drew alongside.  He was not treating her well.

“You will treat this good woman more respectfully, sir.”

They stopped, and he turned. “Who are you, sonny?”

“I am the King’s second son, Richard.”

“Yeah, right, and I’m the King’s brother.”

Insolence.  My father rarely tolerated it and had told us it was a problem that had to be handled.

“I am who I say I am.”

“Then prove it.”

I could see he was raring for a fight.  I wasn’t.  Another adage I was taught was not to get involved in fights that didn’t make sense.

“Give me your word of honour you will treat this woman with the respect she deserves.”

He glared at me.  “Respect.  I paid good money for this woman, from the owner who said she was nothing but lazy and indolent.  I intend to teach her respect.”

“No man can own another person.”

He laughed.  “And your King does not own his servants and use them any way he pleases.  You are a fool, sonny.  Go before I put you to the sword for wasting my time.”

He drew his sword and brandished it in my direction.  A direct challenge that could not be ignored.

I slid off my horse, gave him a pat and hoped he would stay put. I walked the ten paces, drawing my sword.  I stopped short of the man, now looking slightly more aware.

“What are you doing?” Perhaps he hadn’t expected me to get off my horse.

“You just laid down a challenge.  Being a gentleman, I cannot let that pass.”

“You’re going to fight me over this piece of garbage?”

“She is a young lady worthy of your respect, sir. If I have to teach you respect, then I shall.”

He snorted, turned his back, and suddenly came swinging his sword.  Unawares, he might have taken my head off.

The girl jumped back out of the way

I was ready, and we exchanged thrusts and parries.  His sword was slightly heavier than mine, and the metal clanged at each blow.

I was dressed for a fight.  He wasn’t.  Nor was he fit, and by the look of him, the worse for wear after many tankards of ale.  He didn’t smell very nice.

We exchanged blows until he collapsed.  Definitely not fit.  I was feeling a little tired too, the exertion under the blue sky making it hot work.

The last thrust had knocked his sword out of his hands, and I pointed the point of mine at his throat.

“I should kill you for being insolent.”

He looked up at me with an odd expression.  “Then get on with it.  My life isn’t worth living anyway.”

I shrugged and withdrew the sword.  “Any other day, maybe.  Not today.  The truth, how much did you pay for this girl?”

“Five coins,” the girl yelled out.  “Don’t let him tell you different.”

“Shut your mouth, wench.”

I dug out 5 coins and put them in his hand.  “Get up and leave now before I change my mind.”

He dragged himself to his feet and shook off the dust.  Looking at her, he muttered, “Good riddance to bad rubbish.  May you never have a day’s luck with her.”

With that, a final glare at her, he walked off.

She sat on the ground and looked at me.  “What now?”

“You’re free.  You can go anywhere you like.”

“You don’t get it.  I’m not free.  No matter where I go, someone will own me.  I mean, where did you come from? Certainly not around here.  No one is free.”

“Well, now you are.”

She shook her head.  “I belong to you now.  You paid for me.  I promise not to be lazy or insolent, not unless you give me reason.”

She stood up and dusted herself off.

“I have no use for you.”

“Where do you live?”

“In Ryebourne Castle.”

“Where the King lives?  Are you really a prince?”

“I’m the second son, and of no importance or has any status.  I have no need for a servant girl.”

“I can be a companion.  You can’t leave me here.  Someone just as bad as Harold, or worse, will take me.  At least with you I’d be safe.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Then take me to the castle, and I’ll sort out my problem myself.”

I didn’t need a servant girl, I didn’t want a companion, though I knew what she was referring to; my brother took servant girls, and others, for his amusement, and I didn’t agree that it was his right.

But I couldn’t leave her there with nothing. 

“The castle.  That’s it.  You can get some work there. I assume you have worked before?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

I helped her up on the horse, then sat behind her.  It might have been my imagination, but she didn’t smell like a servant, but more like the daughter of one of the noblemen in and around the castle.

…

If I were hoping to get to the stables without any sort of recognition, that was dashed in the last few years. 

Normally, I attracted very little attention because I never made a big event of mingling with the ‘peasants’ as my brother called them.

The next King was in training, if he could be called that, with him being seen by the people and being involved in castle matters, was always a big event.

He was the magistrate for minor offences, where the King decided on only serious matters.

He dealt with land matters and the employment of people on the farms and in the castle.  He was also the Master at Arms for the castle guard.

When not on duty, he could be found in the tavern with several of the noble families’ sons.

This day, he was near the stables with two friends, making life difficult for two of the servant girls who just wanted to get home. 

They both knew what he was capable of and what he could do.  So was I, and it wasn’t pleasant, but until the King chastised him, nothing would change.

Then he saw me.  They made their escape the moment his focus changed.

“Well, what have we here?”

His two friends stood behind him, blocking the short journey to the stables.  The stable hand stopped short, not wanting to get involved.

“Have you lost your memory?” I asked, starting with a polite tone.

“Not you, idiot, the young lady.”

“It’s nothing that concerns you.”

“Everything concerns me.  Who is she?”

Good question.  Up till now, I hadn’t bothered to ask for her name.

“Still none of your business.”

I slid down off the horse and motioned to the stable hand to collect the horse.  He came over and took the reins. 

The girl was looking at my brother, and it wasn’t a curious look.  Perhaps his reputation preceded him.

“Wait for me in the stable,” I said to her. To the stable hand, “Go.”

My brother went to stop him, but I stood in his way.  He went to shove me out of his way, but I shoved him first, sending him backwards into the dirt.

I glared at his two friends.  “You’d better leave before it becomes a mess you don’t want to be explaining to the King.”

They didn’t need a second invitation, glancing at my brother, shrugging, then scuttling away.  It was not the first time my brother and I scuffled in public.  A few of the castle people had gathered in groups to watch.

He dragged himself up from the ground and tried to wipe off the dust and dirt.  He was very angry, and the red tinges in his cheeks were the first indication.

“You would have been better off staying on the ground,” I said, with far more bravado than I felt.

“Who is she that you would risk my wrath?”  There was almost curiosity in his tone.

“Not someone who needs your attention.  I simply brought her here to be safe.  Apparently, that isn’t one of your main interests.”

“She’s a disgusting, lowly servant girl.  She’s nothing to you.”

“She’s a person who deserves respect.  I’m sure that’s not a word in your vocabulary, so you wouldn’t understand.  You want a fight, good.  You can teach me another lesson in humility.”

“And the winner takes all.”

With that, he came at me.  I was used to his tactics, once catching me by surprise.  He had no rules, no etiquette, and for a supposed Knight of the Realm, no chivalry, unless among his contemporaries.

I dodged in time as he ran past and had to stop quickly.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the girl standing next to the stable hand in the doorway.

She looked concerned.

He came again, after circling, waiting for that moment when I might be distracted.  Normally, I would be thinking how bad a beating this was going to be.  This time, I was angry.

Not far from me again, I swayed out of the way of his fist and landed a glancing blow that, combined with his momentum, propelled him face-first into the ground, and it made a smacking sound.

Before he could move, I jumped on him, propelling both knees into his back and hearing a satisfying groan as he felt the full weight.

He could not get up, and he could barely move his arms.

I pushed my knees harder into his back.  “Are we done?”

“You’ll regret this.”

“I regret being born second every day of my life.  But I’m darned if I’m going to let you take anything else from me.  You want war, then you’ve got war.”

I got off him and stood up.  Then I dragged him to his feet.  Blood was streaming from several cuts to his head.

“Winner takes all,” I said.  “You’re lucky you didn’t challenge me to a sword fight.”

His squire suddenly appeared, though I suspect he had been watching from close by.  “Come, sir, we need to fix those wounds.”

He glowered at me, said nothing, but allowed the squire to take him away.

I was going to pay dearly for this skirmish.

…

I just stood there watching my brother retreat.  He only turned once, looking at me over his shoulder, a look that I’d not seen on his face before.

A boy trying to be a man, and coming off only as a bully, who just took a beating.  He was the one who, up to now, had handed out the punishment, the big brother, the one we had to look up to.

Losing had never been factored into who he was to become.  The fact that a number of the castle people had seen it wasn’t going to make it go away.

The girl, whoever she was, came over to me.

“No one has ever taken my side in anything.  Ever.  You didn’t have to do that, not against what I think was your older brother.  Eldest son?  If you are a prince, that makes him…”

“A very sore lover.  Don’t remind me.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I don’t see you as a servant, but just another person trying to get on with your life, and we should respect that.”

“That will never really happen.  Kings, Queens, noblemen and women, they believe they have the fundamental right to rule.  The rest are there just to serve them.  We are taught to take what they give us and be thankful.”

I shrugged.  “Don’t include me in that lot.  I might as well be a peasant as a prince.  I have no say and no life to speak of.  Less so, now that I just dented the pride of our next King.”

“Not the forgive and forget type?’

“Cedric?  No.  You’re free now.  If you go to the marketplace, someone there will tell you where there’s some work.  It won’t be safe for you in the castle.  That’s my fault and I’m sorry.  By the way, what is your name?”

She smiled.  “Anne.  You are?”

“Richard.  I’m sorry.  Maybe if I’d left you alone things might be better.  I fear I’ve just made them worse.”

“No.  I’m grateful you rescued me.  At least I discovered there is one person in this realm who cares about what happens to me.  You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.  Besides, you paid five coins for me, so until you sell me to someone else, I’m yours.”

I gave my severest expression.  “Neither I nor anyone else, for that matter, can own another person.”

“Not in your world, maybe, but in my world it’s very, very different.  Until I can work out what I’m going to do next, I want to stay with you.  I’m still, technically, a damsel in distress.”

I shook my head.  I wasn’t going to get rid of her anytime soon.

….

There were several ways to get to my quarters in the castle, mercifully in another wing away from all the others.  Cedric was near the King and Queen.

Elizabeth and Mary, my sisters, were in another part, and I was as far away from all of them as possible.

My quarters were made up of half a dozen chambers, which made it easier to house her away from me.  I was not like my brother, bringing women to his chamber, conveniently forgetting he was betrothed to a princess from a distant kingdom.

I’d considered more than once to take a ride over there and tell her what her prospective husband was up to.  Then, it’s probably what all first sons did.

Bertram, my head servant, was on his way to find me, obviously having heard about the scuffle.  He stopped short when he saw the girl.

For some odd reason, I got the impression he knew her.

“We have a guest, Bertram.  Get the guest room made up.  And find Marion, the young lady, will need some clean clothes, and whatever.”

“Yes, sir.”  He followed behind.  “His Majesty was looking for you this morning.  He seems displeased that I could not tell him where you were.”

“He usually doesn’t care.”

“Master Cedric was also looking for you.”

That explained why he was near the stables.  He knew I liked to escape and go for a ride.  Sometimes I didn’t come back for days.  No one usually missed me

As we entered the main hall of my chambers, my mother was sitting down, flanked by two of her ladies’ maids, looking very regal.  I knew this was the mother who had been sent to give me a strong talking to.

Before the yelling and posturing, my father was going to hand out.

Except when she saw Anne, she stood and bowed her head.

Anne stopped and looked straight at her.  “Hello, Aunty Morgana.”

My mother bowed to no one other than her contemporaries and curtsied only to other Kings.

“You did not send word that you would be visiting.  This is highly irregular.”

“It wouldn’t be if you did not have an ass for a son.”

My mother looked at me.  “I’m sorry if Richard has treated you badly…”

I was still catching up with the fact that Anne was not a servant girl but a princess.

Anne glared at her, “You are seriously mistaken.  Aunt.  It’s Cedric who is the ass.  Richard is the only one who defended me.”

“That is not possible.”  My mother sounded horrified.

“You would be wise not to add to the bad report I am compiling on this Kingdom.  I was told Cedric was a kind and gentle man who had the respect of his people, and he respected them.  He just tried to beat the one person who defended me, no questions asked, in Cedric’s own words, a disgusting, dirty servant girl.   There was no doubt what he intended to do to me if he won that fight.  Now, it’s been an arduous and eventful trip to get here, and I need to clean up.  Aunt.”  For effect, she curtsied, then joined Marion and went to her room.

My mother was left standing open-mouthed.

To say I was astonished was an understatement.

“Where did you find her?”  My mother suddenly found her voice.

“On the road from Oberon, in rather dangerous circumstances.  I did not know she was a Princess.”

“No.  She was never one to trade on her royal status.  Feisty, forthright, and what I had hoped would be an excellent match for Cedric.”

“Well, Cedric burned that bridge completely.  She will want nothing to do with him.”

“And you?”

“I do not rate in the eligibility stakes for any Princess.  I doubt she would give me a second look, let alone a first.  Maybe if she were a servant girl…”

She shook her head.  “You are worthy of better than that.  We shall speak of that later.  Right now, your father is livid.”

“Maybe now he’ll rein in that stupid son and try to turn him into a human being, though I suspect it might be too late.”

“What you did was unforgivable.”

“What I did was finally stop taking his nonsense.  He got what he deserved.  The people have a very low opinion of him, so good luck trying to salvage his reputation.”

“Explain that to your father.  He’s waiting in the throne room.”

…

It was the room where the King handed out punishment.  It didn’t matter whether it was the lowliest serf or a prince.  We all got the same treatment.

There was usually a panel of nobles and officials.

Cedric would be there.  Trying and failing to learn that justice was meant to be fair and equitable and not based on personal feeling.

I changed and went straight there.  Best not to keep them waiting.

Oddly, this time it was only the King, sitting on the throne.  Usually, his Queen joined him, but she was still in my chambers.

He looked up as I entered the room.

I stopped on the edge of the red carpet and stood silently.  Speak only when spoken to.  Do not embellish.  State facts.

Even if he didn’t want to hear them.

“What have you got to say for yourself?”  I wouldn’t say it was the angriest I heard from him, but it was clear he was displeased with me.

“Cedric was being an ass.”

“Cedric is still finding his way.”

Cedric was taught all the wrong lessons when he was too young to know better.  The lesson I learned from my parents’ failure was to take an active interest in my children’s education.

“Cedric will never find his way unless someone with a proper sense of duty takes him in hand.”

“He is the future King.”

“Then maybe the gods will have mercy on us.”

“You would be wise to change your own attitude, Richard.”

The snort escaped before I could stop it.

“You think this is a joke?”

“Cedric is rapidly becoming one in the eyes of your subjects.  What I think is that you should personally take him down to the dungeons and beat him until he promises to be a better person.”

“The people respect him.”

“The people fear him.  And so did I until he finally pushed me too far.  Do you not wonder why three eligible princesses have turned down offers of marriage?  Obviously not.”

Clearly, he had no knowledge of, or hadn’t been told of, his son’s proclivities.  It was not for me to say.

He sighed.  “We will speak more on this later.”

“As you wish.”  I bowed and left a man deep in thought.

…

When I returned, the Queen had gone. 

Marion and her handmaidens were bustling over Anne.  I retired to my chamber and lay down for a rest.  It had been a busy day.

Several hours later, Bernard woke me.  Dinner in the main hall was in an hour, and protocol demanded my presence.

I looked around the room, not for the first time, and wondered why I was there.  Most mornings, I woke without a purpose.

This time, it was to see an astonishingly different Anne sitting in the seat beside the bed, just looking at me.

“You talk in your sleep.”

“Do I?  Anything interesting?”

“You want to be anywhere but here.”

True.  “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”

“I would not have got a clear picture of who you really are, Richard.  Knowing I’m a princess tends to change people in very strange ways.  Being a disgusting, dirty servant tends to get people to behave exactly how the are.  Your brother and half a dozen others like him treated me like scum, you treated me like a princess, and wanted nothing from me in return.  In this place, I’m beginning to see, it’s an impossibility to expect any better.”

“I don’t think it’s like that with everyone.”

“Rot starts at the top, Richard, and evidences itself in the firstborn son.  I live in a world ruled by men, men who take us for granted, and treat us according to whim, not respect.”

“You came here to judge us.” What else could I assume as her reason for visiting incognito?

“I have been to six other kingdoms in the last year.  Not as dramatic an entrance as with you, but things did go a little sideways before we met.”

“You could have been killed or worse.”

“I put my trust in the Gods, and they didn’t let me down.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“Go to the hastily arranged banquet in my honour, then go home.  Aunty Morgana has sent word for an escort.  I was hoping you would come with me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think you’re that silly.”

“I thought my mother wanted you to marry Cedric.”

“No, that was never her intention.”

Then it dawned on me.  My mother had known that I was never going to get out from under Cedric’s shadow unless I had a reason to.  Anne was that reason.”

“Would you marry to marry a second son?”

“Would you want to marry a girl who’s always getting into trouble because she prefers adventure to needlework?”

“I’ve only known you for a few hours, enough to know you are infuriating.”

“Then life together isn’t going to be dull, is it?”

It was not.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Shanghai

Shanghai Unveiled: 5 Offbeat Adventures Beyond the Usual Tourist Trail

Shanghai. The name itself conjures images of glittering skyscrapers, historic Bund architecture, and bustling shopping streets. It’s a city of undeniable grandeur, a futuristic metropolis steeped in a fascinating past. Most visitors flock to the Oriental Pearl Tower, wander through Yu Garden, or stroll along Nanjing Road. And while these experiences are certainly iconic, they only scratch the surface of what this incredible city has to offer.

What if you’ve seen the postcard views? What if you crave a deeper connection, a glimpse into the everyday magic and quirky corners that locals cherish? You’ve come to the right place. Pack your sense of adventure, because we’re about to explore the roads less travelled in Shanghai, uncovering five unique experiences that will show you a different side of the “Pearl of the Orient.”

1. Immerse Yourself in Urban Art at M50 Creative Park (Moganshan Road 50)

Just a short walk from the Suzhou Creek, M50 is Shanghai’s answer to New York’s SoHo or London’s Shoreditch. Once a series of derelict industrial buildings and textile mills, this sprawling complex has been cleverly repurposed into a vibrant hub for contemporary art.

Why it’s off the beaten path: While known to art enthusiasts, M50 isn’t on the typical tourist itinerary. It’s not a single attraction but a collection of galleries, studios, and workshops, requiring a willingness to wander and discover.

What makes it special: You’ll find everything from cutting-edge installations and abstract paintings to photography exhibitions and quirky design shops. Many artists work on-site, offering a chance to see them in action or even purchase unique pieces directly. The raw, industrial backdrop provides a stark contrast to the sleek art, creating a unique atmosphere. Grab a coffee, chat with a gallerist, and let the creative energy inspire you.

Pro Tip: Look out for street art and graffiti that constantly change on the exterior walls, adding another layer to the artistic experience. Weekdays are generally quieter if you prefer a more contemplative visit.

2. Step Back in Time at the Shanghai Propaganda Poster Art Centre

Tucked away in the basement of a nondescript apartment building in the former French Concession, this private museum is a fascinating, if somewhat clandestine, journey into China’s revolutionary past.

Why it’s off the beaten path: Blink and you’ll miss the subtle entrance! There are no grand signs, and finding it often feels like you’re on a secret mission. It’s certainly not listed in every guidebook.

What makes it special: This veritable treasure trove houses an incredible collection of original propaganda posters from the early days of the People’s Republic of China, through the Cultural Revolution, and beyond. The posters are vibrant, historically significant, and incredibly rare. They offer a unique, visual narrative of a pivotal era, showcasing the artistic styles and political messages that shaped a nation. It’s a poignant and thought-provoking experience, often leaving visitors with a deeper understanding of modern Chinese history.

Pro Tip: Be prepared to ring a doorbell at the address (Room B, 868 Huashan Road) and navigate a residential complex. Photography is usually allowed without flash in most areas, but always double-check.

3. Dive into Local Life at a Bustling Wet Market

Forget souvenir shops; for a true taste of authentic Shanghai life, head to a local wet market. These vibrant, sensory-overload hubs are where locals buy their fresh produce, meat, fish, and unique regional ingredients.

Why it’s off the beaten path: This isn’t a “sight” in the traditional sense, but an immersive cultural experience. It can be loud, a little messy, and overwhelming for some, but that’s precisely its charm.

What makes it special: The sheer energy is infectious. Watch vendors expertly butcher meat, bargain over piles of colourful fruits and vegetables, and marvel at the exotic array of seafood, some of which you’ve probably never seen before. It’s a kaleidoscope of sights, sounds, and smells, offering an unfiltered glimpse into the daily routines of Shanghai residents. You might even discover some incredible street food stalls outside the market selling freshly made noodles, dumplings, or steamed buns.

Pro Tip: Go in the morning when the markets are most active and the produce is freshest. Popular options include the Wulumuqi Road Wet Market or smaller ones nestled in local neighbourhoods around the former French Concession. Be respectful, don’t block aisles, and be open to new sensory experiences!

4. Find Serenity at Longhua Temple & Pagoda

While Yu Garden’s classical beauty draws crowds, the Longhua Temple offers a more contemplative and authentic Buddhist experience. Located a bit further south, it’s Shanghai’s oldest and largest Buddhist complex, boasting a history that dates back nearly 1,800 years.

Why it’s off the beaten path: It requires a short Metro ride out of the absolute city centre, making it less convenient for quick tourist dashes. This results in fewer crowds and a more peaceful atmosphere.

What makes it special: The temple complex features several grand halls, each housing impressive statues of Buddha and various deities, as well as beautifully manicured gardens. The most striking feature is the magnificent 7-story Longhua Pagoda, an elegant brick and wood structure that is one of the few examples of ancient pagoda architecture remaining in Shanghai. Explore the grounds, listen to the rhythmic chanting of monks, and watch locals offer prayers, giving you a sense of ancient spirituality amidst the modern urban sprawl.

Pro Tip: Visit during a Buddhist festival for a more lively experience with special ceremonies and offerings, but avoid it if you prefer quiet reflection. The Vegetarian Restaurant within the temple grounds offers a delicious and authentic temple-fare lunch.

5. Ride the Local Ferry for Unbeatable Skyline Views (Without the Price Tag)

Forget expensive Huangpu River cruises! For a truly local and incredibly cheap experience with equally stunning views of Shanghai’s iconic skyline, hop on one of the regular commuter ferries.

Why it’s off the beaten path: Most tourists are directed to the fancier cruise ships. The local ferries are simply a means of transport for residents crossing the river, making them a genuine “road less travelled” experience.

What makes it special: For just a few yuan, you can glide across the Huangpu River, enjoying panoramic vistas of both the historic Bund on the Puxi side and the futuristic Pudong skyline (Oriental Pearl Tower, Shanghai Tower, Jin Mao Tower) on the other. It’s an unpretentious, unhurried way to soak in the city’s breathtaking architecture, rub shoulders with locals, and feel the pulse of Shanghai’s daily life, all while getting incredible photo opportunities.

Pro Tip: Take the ferry from the Bund (near Chenyi Square) to Pudong, especially around sunset, for the most dramatic views as the city lights begin to twinkle. You can pay with a Shanghai Public Transportation Card or exact change (usually 2-3 RMB).

Shanghai is a city that constantly reinvents itself, but its true magic often lies just beyond the well-trodden paths. By venturing into these less-explored corners, you’ll not only discover hidden gems but also gain a richer, more authentic understanding of this dynamic metropolis. So, next time you’re in this incredible city, dare to take the road less travelled – you might just find your new favourite Shanghai memory.

What hidden gems have YOU uncovered in Shanghai? Share your tips in the comments below!